


Paramour

by Redgeandlilly



Series: Anita Blake: Night Heiress [5]
Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Badass normal, Butchering French language and culture, F/F, F/M, Fix-it fic, Gen, Gratuitous use of the words flavor and spill, Light Angst, Mommy Issues, Spitefic, all the homo in the world, bisexual Anita, gratuitous and possibly inaccurate French, raging bicuriosity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28706280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redgeandlilly/pseuds/Redgeandlilly
Summary: Anita Blake, vampire executioner and foremost animator in the tri-state area, always seems to escape trouble by the skin of her teeth.Others aren't so lucky.With St. Louis still reeling from Mr. Oliver's attack months before, Animators Inc has joined in the effort to find the missing, presumed dead. Anita's party makes a shocking discovery in the shallows of the St. Louis River— the mangled bodies of a stripper and a local prostitute, both flayed alive.While she struggles to find the culprit, Anita's personal life is just as fraught. Forced to juggle the romantic needs of her werewolf lover, and the political needs of her vampire master, Anita doesn't think life can get more complicated. Until it does.Digging deeper, Anita discovers a commonality among the victims, and a conspiracy to keep the deaths from the police. The officer in charge refuses to allow Anita to consult on the case, or even set foot on a crime scene. Anita must seek help from an unconventional source, two medical professionals from her past, one that she doesn't always trust, and the other who she doesn't like.But like it or not, she has to trust them. Lives are at stake.
Relationships: Anita Blake/Richard Zeeman, Jean-Claude/Anita Blake, Jeanette/Anita, Jeanette/Gretchen, Jeanette/Meng Die, John Burke/Wheelchair Wanda, Larry Kirkland/Tammy Reynolds, Veronica Sims/Louis Fane
Series: Anita Blake: Night Heiress [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823521
Comments: 62
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

_Bert Vaughn is an oratory sensation,_ the nearest magazine cover line screamed in bright yellow print. _A brilliant, handsome innovator with cogent thoughts on the meaning of life...and death._

“A lot of fancy words to say he loves to hear himself talk,” I muttered over the rim of my newly acquired Christmas mug. The handle was striped like a candy cane in the spirit of the season. A smirking elf decal held a glass of wine aloft, toasting the words, “Treat Your-Elf.” 

And Burt says I have no holiday spirit. 

Like any of its fellows on wire racks all across America, the glossy magazine was selling the unwary consumer a pretty half-truth. Bert was innovative, yes, but not what you’d call a looker. Even the headshot plastered across the front had to be airbrushed within an inch of its life before it could go to print. 

The photographer cut the shot off mid-shoulder, so he lacked his usual towering height to lend to his sense of gravitas. The angle didn't really give an impression of how broad he is, or how fit he once was. He was going a little soft in the middle now. Too many corporate dinners, and not enough cardio. He should do my job for a day. Running from vampires is excellent cardio.

Bert’s face was chiseled, sure, but he also tanned within an inch of his life. Now that he’d tipped over forty, his skin was starting its slow transformation into jerky. His white-blonde hair was a startling contrast to the golden-brown skin, and it wasn’t altogether flattering. Bert’s eyes were the gray of a frosted windowpane. Cloudy but still transparent enough to give you the shape of the thoughts lingering behind them. 

Those thoughts usually centered on his bank account, and how many zeros he could pack behind one numeral. Before a big-shot Hollywood director had called him out of the blue, asking for me specifically, he’d been making seven figures. 

Now he was making ten. It didn’t matter how much back sass I gave him. With that kind of payout, I could have demanded his office, and he’d have given it to me. I couldn’t get fired if I tried, and there was a childish part of me that wanted to see exactly how far I could push before Bert would stop kissing my ass and treat me like an employee again. He hadn’t even blinked at the Christmas mug. 

It sort of ruined the fun.

A job at the start of November left me with broken bones and a severe case of PTSD. I’d needed the time off, but, after so many police mishaps and missed work, couldn’t afford to piss off my boss one more time. So what was a girl to do? Grudgingly accept a generous gift from the persistent Master of St. Louis, of course. 

A former celebrity herself, Jeanette had pulled strings, landing me the hottest animating job of the year. Beloved action star, Glen Vale, had died tragically at thirty-five, after losing a battle with cancer. The diagnosis had been sudden, the disease aggressive and unresponsive to treatment. There’d been no time to recast the role. 

Desperate, the production team had done all they could, shooting his scenes first, rushing the script, cutting corners on the set, and even so, it hadn’t been enough. Vale died before the movie could wrap, leaving the studio with a net loss of $300,000,000. The trailer had already been released with Vale in the role, and excitement was high. The studio had to do something. The truly impressive check they’d cut Animators Inc. for my services was just a drop in the bucket in light of what they stood to lose. 

So I’d spent the last six weeks in New Orleans, shooting on-location. I had to stay close to Vale in order to keep him lifelike and responsive, so they had given me a bit part in the film. They had written me as comic relief until the studio learned I could actually do my own stunts. Then I became an action girl, a la James Bond. Go figure. It still beat the hell out of being the taxi driver cracking jokes in broken English. That smacked of racism. Someone should have been fired for scribbling those five pages of brain excrement.

_New Orleans Undead_ would release as a summer blockbuster, and my name was in the billing. Cool, right?

One of my fellow animators, John Burke, had actually flown down with his girlfriend, Wanda Connolly, to show me the sights. John and his late brother Peter had grown up in the French Quarter, tutored by the best Vodu Priests and Priestesses you could find in the States. The work had been tiring, but the rewards had been worth it. It had been my first real break from violence since I'd become an executioner. The ugly knot of anger, bitterness, and resentment that rested around my breastbone had eased. After three years, I felt like I could finally breathe. 

John snorted into the rim of his cup, hiding a smile at my comment. He’d taken a cue from me and chosen something irreverent for the holidays. The mug was plain white ceramic with the words “Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal” printed on the side. 

It didn’t take a genius to guess what I was referring to. Bert had bought stacks of the stupid things and scattered them on every desk, counter, and end table. There were ten on this conference table alone.

“Did you want to add something, Ms. Blake?” Bert asked, blinking pleasantly, as though he hadn’t heard every damn word. I hadn’t been subtle, but I was betting he’d have ignored me, even if I’d used a megaphone.

I beamed at him, gratified when a muscle under his eye twitched. Poor Bert. I was going to give him an ulcer at this rate. 

“Nope. You were saying?” 

Bert forced a smile, and his voice came out through his teeth. I grinned harder. I missed this side of Bert. The ass-kissing had gotten old fast.

“I said that Animators Inc. will be opening up locations in every state in the continental U.S, excluding Oklahoma, because of the statewide zombie-raising ban. There are a lot of animators outside the US, but until now I haven’t really had the money or space to hire new people. Now that we have capital and investors, I’m bringing in new talent to staff those offices. Most of the people looking for animating jobs in the US are seeking asylum. Now that Animators Inc. is going national, I’m going to need fresh meat. It’s a win all around.” 

I gaped at Bert. Maybe I _should_ have been paying attention. Quarterly meetings were usually a chance for Bert to laud himself and occasionally discuss any bonuses we might be getting. This was _huge_. It had the potential to change everything for the better, though I knew that was just a happy accident in Bert's reckoning. Something he could spin into good PR.

He smiled, obviously pleased with himself, ignoring the sound my jaw made as it hit the conference table. 

“I think the new locations will come in handy when Brewster’s Law goes into effect in the New Year.” 

I grimaced, the reminder leaving a sour taste in my mouth. In October, an ancient vampire had come out of the woodwork, killing hundreds in the St. Louis metropolitan area, and leaving untold destruction in his wake. People were scared, and when the people were scared, politicians swarmed like sharks. The U.S. Government, in an unprecedented show of unity, had railroaded Senator Brewster’s bill through Congress and onto the President’s desk only three months after the attack. It had been signed into law a week ago. 

“How do you figure that?” I asked, taking a swig of coffee. I’d been attempting to drink it warm again. It was slow going, and the stuff Bert bought was second-rate, anyway.

“If I understand the finer points, you, Larry, and John will be grandfathered in under the provisions for existing executioners. As Federal Agents I expect you’ll need to travel, and opportunities to animate don’t crop up routinely. None of you can go for long without raising an animal carcass, at the least. I’ve changed the terms of your contracts. While you’re doing your duties as FBSA agents, you’ll only be scheduled for one raising a month at any of our US locations.” 

I continued to goggle at Bert, scanning him up and down, looking for a zipper. There had to be a lizard person under that meat suit because there was no way this man was my boss. Bert Vaughn didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘concession’ 

“You should build monopolies more often,” I said finally. “I’ve never seen you this happy. You’re almost a halfway decent human being.” 

He smiled, showing perfectly straight, white teeth. His eyes even crinkled at the edges. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Blake.” 

“It’s the closest you’ll ever get from me.” 

He chuckled. “I know. Now I think that’s all for today. Off you go.”

Chairs were pushed back, scraping dully against the floor. Conversation started up as the crowd of animators, mediums, and researchers all started for the door, heading for their respective offices. My fellow animators would be leaving the building, bound for cemeteries, or one of the body retrieval groups Humans First founded after Mr. Oliver's attack. I didn't like the source, but I appreciated the sentiment. Animators with enough power had been taking turns accompanying the search parties every week. We'd turned up forty-eight bodies so far. 

My motives were personal. Rory Hale's body was still MIA. I'd put up with whatever racist, speciest bullshit Humans First spewed if it meant I could return his remains to his sister. Manny knew what it meant to me, and was helping the group searching the riverfront. I’d be joining them after my date with Richard.

“Not you, Blake.” 

I stopped a few feet from the door and cast him a glare over one shoulder. 

“What?” 

“I need you to consult with a client.” 

“No. I requested the rest of the evening off, and you approved it. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late for my date.” 

One of Bert’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re dating?” 

I gestured down my body. “Do you think I dress like this for the hell of it?”

Bert considered my outfit. It was a departure from the tight black slacks and jewel-toned blouses I usually wore to work. I’d braved the interior of a department store and bumbled around until I found a clerk who’d take pity on me. An hour later and I’d come out with this ensemble. A black bodycon dress with sheer sleeves, and a plunging neckline. A pair of opaque stockings concealed the damage a vampire had inflicted on my left leg. Sequins glittered on a pair of spike heels. My hair was up, a pair of steel stakes shoved into the dark, curly mass of my hair, and an antique crucifix rested in my decolletage.

“I thought you might be showing a hint of professional pride, just this once.” 

The tone was mild, but there was an almost feisty glint in his eye that made me smile, despite myself. He’d missed this too. 

“I can’t consult with a client right now, Bert. Tell him to come back tomorrow night.” 

“It will only take a few minutes, I promise. What he’s asking for is impossible, but he won’t take my word for it. He says that you’re the best and that he wants to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.” 

“Just a few minutes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do I have permission to stick a heel up his ass if he doesn’t take no for an answer?” 

Bert sighed and turned to go.

“As if you ever need permission.”


	2. Chapter 2

I’m not a particularly neat person. When I stagger in after raisings and shuck my clothes off, they rarely make it into the hamper. Dust bunnies copulate with wild abandon under my couch. I do dishes and laundry only when the need is dire, and have a maid come in on a bi-monthly basis to do anything else. 

You’d never know any of it looking at my office. The walls are an inoffensive powder blue, the carpet a steely gray polyester blend, and the baseboards an off-white stripe that broke up the monotony of it all. Before his one-eighty into obscene levels of brown-nosing, Bert had all but demanded a change. We provided a service aimed at grieving families. Our offices should reflect our personalities, he said. They should be warm, inviting places. Who’d feel comfortable opening up in a cold, Spartan office like mine? 

The problem was, the office _did_ reflect my personality. I had a penguin calendar on one wall with the December spread open to the photo of a Chinstrap penguin perched on a ledge, caught mid-flap. My company laptop was tucked neatly out of sight, and the paperwork for my most recent raising was resting in a tray, just waiting for Bert’s signature. It’d been a standard bereavement raising, performed just after dusk. The office was minimalistic, practical, and dotted with my favorite animal. My half-brother Josh says I’m made of rage and penguins. 

And hey, the kid’s not wrong. 

The seconds slid by, chafing at my already stretched nerves. I was due to meet Richard at the Fox Theater for a performance of the _Cirque Dreams Holidaze_ , and this pointless consultation was cutting into my drive time. The snow had begun to fall on my way back from Lake Charles Park Cemetery, and would only pile higher the longer I lingered. 

I was an overly cautious driver under the best conditions, but in winter, I put even overbearing grandmothers to shame. My mother died when I was eight years old, taking a sharp turn on the icy road out of town. She’d been thrown out of the windshield and bled to death on the side of the road. The car had rolled into the nearby river and submerged, never to be seen again. It was the only road in or out of Stillwater, so I was forced to pass it every time I went home for the holidays. 

And dad wonders why I don’t visit much. 

The door opened with a whisper of sound and a man stepped through, shutting it just as quietly. 

My first impression was...white. Blindingly, shockingly white. White wingtip shoes, ivory dress slacks, a matching dress shirt, and a cream-colored sports jacket slung stylishly over one shoulder. Even his hair was white. What little I could see of it was bleached of all color, thin and coiffed. The hair was mostly concealed by a white trilby with a blush pink hatband. It and the matching tie were the only splash of color I could see on the otherwise ghostly man. 

I blinked once, momentarily forgetting to frown at him. 

The corner of his mouth lifted, so I guessed he got the reaction a lot. It morphed the angular face into something devastatingly handsome, which helped me regain some of my equilibrium. He was good-looking, and he knew how to use that to his advantage. I knew the type and didn’t trust them a whit. Ah, to be on familiar footing again. 

“So are you off to a costume party as Travolta, or just looking to get lost in a blizzard, Mr...?” 

The man’s smile ticked up a notch, and it lit the perfect blue of his eyes. “Gunderson. Kaspar Gunderson. I was told you were a prodigious animator, but no one told me you were a comic.” 

“Well, most people just stick with smartass.”

If Bert heard me talk like this a month ago, he would have gone postal. Even if I couldn’t help Mr. Gunderson with his problem, there was a chance that I could help an associate of his in the future. When we’d been a solitary firm, we had a lot more to lose. Now that Animators Inc. was going national, I could afford to have a looser tongue. 

Besides, Kaspar seemed to appreciate the sass. If I could keep his spirits up, maybe it’d take the sting out of the rejection. If Bert said the job was impossible, I believed him. He never turned down a chance to make a profit, so the losses had to outweigh whatever he stood to gain from Gunderson’s proposal. Bert would never bet on a bad hand.

Kaspar folded himself into the seat across from me with a chuckle. “I like you, Ms. Blake.” 

“Let’s skip the formalities, Mr. Gunderson. Tell me what you want from me. Bert wasn’t supposed to schedule any consultations tonight, and I have other engagements.”

Kaspar considered my ensemble for the first time. Unlike every male animator in the firm, Kaspar’s eyes hadn’t wandered to the line of deep cleavage on display. When his eyes had strayed from my face, they’d focused on the mounded scar tissue at the crook of one arm visible through the sheer sleeves of the dress. His eyes had roved to the distinct and much cleaner bite on my forearm, and then to the brand scars on each arm. The cross-shaped brand on my left arm had healed to a nice pearly white. The eagle feather brand an ancient Aztec vampire had placed on my right arm was still healing. It was a dusky rose color, healing human-slow. It still smarted occasionally. 

“You’re right, of course. Rude of me to keep a lady away from her date. I’ll come out and say it. I need a witch raised. Your boss says that no animator would be capable, but I believe that you are. I’ve heard stories. You raised a five-hundred-year-old corpse with just a bovine sacrifice under pressure, and you saved the lives of three people. I think you’re more than capable of doing what I need done.” 

I schooled my expression, trying hard to give him nothing but pleasant, professional blankness. No one could ever learn the truth of what I’d done that night. For the second time in my life, I’d committed an act of magical malfeasance, using a human sacrifice to raise a host of undead. It’d almost cost me my life. If it hadn’t been for Jeanette’s timely intervention, I might have been swallowed by the Dark. 

But even without the unmitigated metaphysical disaster to worry about, there were still the legal ramifications to consider. Using magic to harm another living being was a death sentence. Sentences were carried out within six months of a conviction. The methods of execution were brutal. Beheading, hanging, or fire. Most often fire. 

“Bert is right, Mr. Gunderson. I can’t raise a witch for you. No animator would. The likelihood it would raise a flesh-eating zombie is upward of eighty percent. It’s an unacceptable risk.” 

The genial smile dropped off his face and his eyes went frosty. “Unacceptable? You’re really going to say that to my face, Ms. Blake? You don’t even know why I want her raised.” 

“It’s immaterial, Mr. Gunderson. Animators Inc. would be liable for any deaths that occurred due to a botched raising. We have to file an OSHA report on any abnormal zombies we come across. We have to keep meticulous records on what sorts of zombies can and can’t be raised. If you’d consulted our webpage, you’d know that. It’s one thing to raise something dangerous by accident. We absolutely will not do it on purpose. We could be prosecuted by the state.” 

“I work in antiques and collectibles,” he said, raising his voice to speak over the tail end of my sentence. “And I breed hunting dogs on the side. I make a great deal of money. I can pay you triple what you ordinarily make. Quadruple. Name your price. Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you. But I can’t live with this curse, anymore, Ms. Blake. I’ve gone to every psychic, witch, and voodoo priestess I can find. They said only the one who cast the spell can take it off. The bitch croaked years ago. I _need_ her raised.” 

I stared plaintively up at him and wanted to say something comforting, or give his hand a squeeze. Saying I was sorry sounded patronizing. 

“I can’t help you, Mr. Gunderson,” I said softly. “Your five minutes are up. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Kaspar went rigid, and the frosty eyes filled with a steely sort of hate that I’d only seen a few times before. It was almost always followed by a blow. I reached slowly for my desk drawer, and the Browning Hi-Power I kept stashed inside during office hours. I would keep it in my clutch during my date with Richard and then snugged into my shoulder holster during the hike along the riverfront tonight.

“I don’t want to go.”

My hand closed around the Browning’s grip and I drew it out of the drawer quietly, then stood. I kept it level with my thigh, pointed at the ground a few inches away from my foot. First rule of firearm safety; Don’t point at something you don’t intend to shoot. Kaspar wasn’t armed. I’d see a piece against all that stark white clothing. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. 

He spied the gun and went very still. Anxiety flickered briefly across his haughty, angular features. Good. At least we understood each other. 

“If you don’t move in the next five seconds, I’m going to call security. If you try to pull a weapon before they arrive, I will shoot you. Are we clear?” 

Kaspar considered me for a moment and then nodded. “We’re clear, Ms. Blake.” 

“Good. Now get the hell out.” 

He left. I called security anyway and then waited, standing stock still, Browning at the ready until a shaky-looking Craig stumbled in to inform me that Kaspar had been escorted off the premises. Only then did I set the gun aside, sinking into the chair, waiting until the shakes stopped to check the clock. 

I’d lost thirty minutes to the “short” consultancy gig and was going to be late for my date. 

Just fucking ducky. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Maybe we should have stayed in and watched _It’s a Wonderful Life,_ " I muttered. 

I’d been in for a nasty surprise after shuffling to my seat thirty minutes into _Cirque Dreams Holidaze_. We’d gone dutch on the tickets, so at least I didn’t feel like I’d cheated Richard out of his half of the experience. At least, that’s what I’d been telling myself, until I squeezed into the seat next to him, catching the tail end of a truly impressive balancing act. When I’d settled in next to him, his back was already plastered in a rigid line against his chair. The tendons stood out against the backs of his hands, and his fingers dug into the armrests, threatening to bend the fragile material with his superior strength. 

Richard was usually a mild-mannered junior high science teacher, but he was also an alpha werewolf, and tonight, it was showing. When he was human, his eyes were a lovely, rich color, like milk chocolate. Something warm and sweet that you wanted to indulge in after a hard day. That was the sort of Richard I’d been hoping to meet tonight. I’d known something was wrong when he turned amber eyes on me instead, a hint of his beast peeking out at me from his human face. Touching him felt like pressing my fingers to a hot stovetop, the pain sharp and unexpected. It had lasted only a second or two, but it’d set the tone for the rest of the evening. 

At first he wouldn’t spell out exactly what was wrong, and it left me wondering what exactly I’d done. I’d given him a half-truth, telling him Bert kept me late. When he’d assured me it wasn’t that, I’d wondered if the theater was a bit too much. Richard wasn’t a new therianthrope, but that didn’t mean the urges that came with his beast half were gone. We were in a crowd and emotions were running high. People were sweating, exuding hormones, and I had to assume at least a few of the women were bleeding. No matter what the press said, contracting the virus didn’t change who you were as a person. It didn’t change your tastes; it didn’t change your sexuality, and it didn’t make you an animal that just acted on instinct. You had a human mind, and after your first several shifts, you could exercise control. 

It didn’t mean that there wasn’t a beast in Richard, and that caution shouldn’t be exercised if he was feeling overwhelmed. I wouldn’t drag a recovering addict past a potential trigger and ask him to just keep walking. Richard even warned me we’d never be watching a horror film in a crowded theater. Too much temptation, even if the blood and gore were simulated. The fear was genuine, and it raised his beast.

But that hadn’t been it either. Richard wasn’t angry with me. He was angry at _her_. Or more accurately, at _them_. 

Jeanette and Gretchen were seated a few rows up, in what were probably the best seats in the house. If the lights had been up, I was sure I wouldn’t have overlooked them. They weren’t trying to be conspicuous but were still drawing stares. Maybe it was the perfect, polished beauty they exuded. The kind you rarely saw outside of magazine covers or runways. Maybe it was the curiosity of the masses, wondering just who Jeanette was sleeping with now. Maybe it was the hand that Gretchen was running over Jeanette’s thigh. 

“We can’t be shut-ins forever,” Richard whispered. “Besides, you hate _It’s a Wonderful Life_.” 

It was true. The 1946 classic was Judith’s favorite, and we’d been forced to watch it as a family every Christmas until I’d graduated and left for college. Just to be contrary, my favorite Christmas movie was _The Grinch_. 

“We don’t have to stay,” I repeated for the umpteenth time. “We could find something else to do with the night.” 

“You’re going to search the riverfront after our date. I’m not going to pull you away from that.” 

“You could go with me.” 

“You know I can’t.”

I chewed the inside of my lip, wanting to argue with him, knowing it would be useless. Richard wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the careful life he’d built for himself. He had a cozy teaching position, a nice house in a good neighborhood, and a flawless reputation among his peers. He was the golden child, the Boy Scout, the poster boy for wholesome living, and he’d even found a woman he could take home to mother. I understood why he was so damn careful. It was a lot to lose. Maybe if I’d ever had a happy home life, sterling reputation, or a plan that didn’t implode at some point, I’d have felt the same.

The balancing act cleared away and a young man wearing only tight, shiny blue pants and a matching vest sashayed in to take their place. He gave the crowd a dazzling smile as scarlet ropes dropped from the ceiling. The Spanish Web, a trick performed with just two, versus the version performed by the _Cirque de Soleil_ , which had turned the trick into an aerial ballet of sorts. There were rumors that a vampire dance company in Chicago wanted to perform an entire ballet suspended mid-air. I wasn’t a fan of ballet, but even I’d pay to see something that spectacular.

“There will be regular people there,” I argued, keeping my voice as low. We were already getting dirty looks from our neighbors. “Ronnie joins a search party every week. Everyone at Animators Inc. goes. You’re my boyfriend. Everyone will think that you’re being supportive, not that you’re-" 

“I said no, Anita. Drop it. We’ll watch the damn show and then you can do whatever you damn well please. As always.” 

I half-rose out of my chair and wasn’t sure what I’d have done next. Shouted at him, maybe. It wasn’t my fault I’d been late. He was acting like I’d asked Jeanette out on a double date without consulting him first. I hadn’t been any happier than he’d been, but at least I was trying to find alternatives, damn it! And now he was going to throw it back in my face like a spoiled brat? 

But just as I opened my mouth to tell him what orifice he could stuff that sentiment up, the crowd rose to its feet, uttering a single, unified scream. I had to stand on tiptoe to peer over the man in front of me and just as quickly ducked down. It was hard to tell at a glance whether the man in the blue vest had fallen mid-twirl, or if the rigging had snapped, sending him flailing to earth. It didn’t matter. What I’d seen was enough. Bones protruding grotesquely, so startlingly white against his tanned skin. Blood, a scarlet smear across the stage. The crowd was agitated, a herd about to stampede. 

Richard was on his feet, scanning the crowd with surface-level concern that was ordinary and human. Beneath it lurked the beast, interest already stirring, the struggle playing out on the chiseled planes of his face.

Blood, meat, fear, and a pissed-off werewolf. I believe the technical term was ‘clusterfuck.’

I shoved a hand into my clutch purse and groped for the Bare Minerals container stashed at the bottom. The Browning was down further still, tucked into a false bottom. If this worked, I wouldn’t need the gun. 

I hoped.

“Sorry about this,” I said, screwing the lid off. “Close your eyes.”

“Why? And sorry for wh-" 

I tossed the contents of the container at his face. The garlic I’d passed off as concealer coalesced in a smelly cloud of yellow-white dust, coating his wavy golden-brown hair like talc, gathering in the collar of his dress shirt, and in his still-open mouth. At least he’d shut his eyes before the spice rack revolt. 

“Come on,” I said, sliding a hand into his, tugging him toward the nearest exit. “We need to go.” 

It wasn’t a novel idea. By the time we’d wriggled out of our row, there was a crowd clogging the exit, and among them were Jeanette and Gretchen. Most of the people clamoring to be released were vampires, but I suspected at least a few were closeted therians, just like Richard. 

A guard glanced at Richard and I suspiciously as we made for the door. He was dark-haired, short, and round , with a handlebar mustache like every cop I’d seen in a children’s cartoon. It might have been a funny visual if the circumstances were different. Now? Now the look he gave us just pissed me off. 

I wasn’t sure what set Mr. Rent-A-Cop off, but he wanted to swing his weight around. Fine by me. I still had my executioner’s badge, which meant I could legally carry whenever and wherever.

As far as dick measuring contests went? Mine was bigger.

“ID, please,” he said gruffly, extending a hand toward Richard. 

“Why?” I asked. 

The guard’s eyes flicked to me, taking me in from the spike heels up to the crown of my head. That already trampled any chance I’d like him, and my irritation only grew when he continued to ogle my chest, even as he answered the question.

“Orders, Miss.” 

“Oh, really? Because I’m pretty sure forcing someone to disclose their gender, sexual preference, or species when it isn’t relevant is harassment.”

The guard dragged his gaze away from my cleavage long enough to fix me with an unfriendly stare. His eyes were an unappealing gray-brown, like a washed-out gravel road. They were a little too small for his face and hid behind cheeks too round. With a round face like that, he should have looked like a jolly apple-cheeked cherub. 

He didn’t. 

“It is relevant, Miss. Blood’s been spilled on stage. Some creatures can’t help themselves.” 

“All the more reason to let them pass. It doesn’t make much sense to lock hungry vampires in with a bleeding body, now does it?”

His cheeks flushed a blotchy red, and I didn’t need super-hearing to know his heart was going double-time, trying to chug past what was probably an overburdened system. When a person got angry, their body mistakenly believed it was preparing to fight for its life. The blood vessels tightened, blood pressure soared. Wear and tear happened on the artery walls. 

I should know. 

Dr. Sopata estimated that if I wasn’t linked to Jeanette, my temper could shave at least ten years off my average life expectancy. Rage was a killer, and the male ego could be so easy to bruise. 

His gaze roved the length of my body, lip curling in disgust when he spotted the bite marks at my forearm, elbow, and collarbone. The latter were messy, clearly an attack, but it didn’t matter. Some Freaks liked it to hurt. 

“Coffin bait,” he muttered under his breath. 

“What’s that?” I asked brightly. “I couldn’t hear you. Why don’t you say it louder for those in the back?”

He didn’t flinch. The bigots at least used to be subtle about it in public, afraid of losing their jobs. In the wake of Mr. Oliver’s attack and the founding of the FBSA, they felt comfortable enough saying it aloud and in front of witnesses. 

“I said what would you know about it, coffin bait?”

“More than you’d think,” I said, and produced my laminated executioner’s badge from my purse. I shoved it beneath his nose. “My name is Anita Blake. Ever heard of me?” 

The guard’s expression flickered. He had heard of me. That was good.

“Traitor.” 

Or maybe not. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Executioners are supposed to stand with us. With human beings. How the hell can you turn around and fuck the enemy?” 

I jabbed a finger into his chest, surprised to find a metal nameplate hidden just under a fold in his shirt.

“This is not the time for this. Get out of my way...Max. Save the prick measuring for whatever poor camgirl you pay to jerk off to.” 

There was a round of soft chuckles, and Max’s face deepened from red to puce. His fingers flexed, forming fists at his sides. 

“I’m in charge, here, bitch. I give the orders. I say when people leave.” 

“You know what I think?” I asked, loudly enough for at least some of the first row to hear. “I think you’re deliberately trying to hold vampires inside this hall, knowing it could tempt someone. I think you want an excuse to perform a citizen’s staking. Did you and your buddies also rig the ropes to fail, or was it literally just a happy accident?” 

There was a tense second where I thought he’d lunge for me. Then he peered over my shoulder, met someone’s eyes, and deflated. He tucked his chin, glowered at the floor, and yanked open the door. 

“Get out,” he hissed. 

“Happy to,” I shot back. “There’s a distinct reek of racist asshole in here.” 

And garlic. What a potpourri.


	4. Chapter 4

“Thanks. I’ve always wanted to smell like the inside of an Olive Garden.” Richard said, rubbing the grit from his nose with a grimace.

We’d gotten as far as the parking lot, pausing beneath the street lamp by my Jeep. The vampires that escaped the theater after us were peeling out of the lot, probably sensing they’d narrowly escaped trouble. 

Well, all but two, anyway. Jeanette and Gretchen were winding through the rows of parked cars, moving toward us. I thought Jeanette might have been arguing with her, but it seemed Gretchen was winning the fight. They moved in stops and starts, but they kept coming.

“Find a nice vinaigrette and a hotel room and I could be convinced to lick you clean,” I said, and couldn’t help a smirk.

Richard didn’t smile. If anything, he seemed angrier. His brow scrunched into a mass of hard lines, his full, kissable mouth turning down, and my hopes for salvaging the night were snuffed like a candle after Midnight Mass. 

“You always do that.” 

I reached for the trunk latch, yanking it up. He’d already told me he wasn’t joining the search party, so I might as well get dressed and head out. This was shaping up to be a fight, and I wasn’t in the mood. Not after the night I’d had. 

I’d gotten the Jeep used just after college, purely for practicality's sake. The junker I’d bought in high school had served its purpose, getting me to and from classes all four years I’d been attended Washington University in St. Louis. The cargo space would hold the animating kit and change of clothes I’d need when working at Animators Inc. At the time, it was all I’d needed out of a car. 

_Never live past your means_. I’d heard that a lot when I’d lived with Grandma Blake. Most often she’d be shaking her head at reality television when people took out loans to pay for their weddings, throw extravagant parties for their teenagers, or renovate an already nice home. There was nothing wrong with having nice things...if you could afford them. And I could, now. But I’d seen what it’d been like when people couldn’t. I’d heard stories of my dad’s childhood, growing up poor with a single mother, who’d scrimped and saved to give him everything he had. How Grandma Blake had sold the class ring and all the jewelry Grandpa Blake had given her to buy her first pair of troll dogs and the breeding certificate that would help her work her way back to financial stability. 

I could afford a damn limo if I wanted one, but I suspected a part of me would always feel like I owed it to my family to uphold that legacy. We were people who did things for ourselves. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, plucking a pair of black jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt, and a wool overcoat from the waiting cargo area. I climbed inside, half-closing the trunk, and Richard dutifully held it in position as I began stripping off layers. It still let in a stream of cold air and, unfortunately, his firm, accusatory tone. 

“Yes, you do.” 

“No, I don’t. Spit it out, already,” I said.

“Anytime I get angry, or I try to make a point, you immediately belittle it or turn it to sex. We can’t have a discussion that doesn’t come around to it at some point. Is that all this is to you, Anita?” 

I paused, shivering, with my shirt half-on, blinking at his back through the window. “Are you saying you feel like a piece of meat? Is that the problem?” 

“It’s _one_ of my problems.” 

Great. There were more. As if the first one wasn’t a doozy. 

I pulled my shirt down and donned the shoulder rig next. When reached for the jeans, I tugged them on carefully. Some of the skin on my burned leg was more sensitive than the rest, and I had to be careful when dressing. The ankle socks were blue to match the swooshes on my Nikes. I stared at what showed over the lip of my shoes thoughtfully, tucking my knees under my chin. 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, half-hoping the wind would drown my words. “I didn’t know you felt that way.” 

I thought very briefly about climbing into the front, putting the Jeep into drive, and steering away from this conversation, away from Richard with his accusations, away from the approaching vampires. Whatever was brewing between the two was sure to be unpleasant, and would probably spill over onto us. I _so_ didn’t need Jeanette and Gretchen’s emotional shit right now. 

I groaned, retrieved the Browning from my clutch, stowing it in the shoulder rig, pulled on the coat, and climbed out of the car. I was many things, but a coward wasn’t one of them. Richard deserved better than what I was giving him. I would not crouch in the back of my car like a petulant child while he worked through this. If he could work his shit, I could too. I didn’t think the parking lot was an ideal spot for this discussion, but hey, at least he wasn’t giving me the cold shoulder. 

Scanning the parking lot, I found Jeanette and Gretchen a few rows away, still arguing. We still had time. Maybe if we did this quickly, or moved the conversation inside the car, we could avoid a confrontation. 

Richard leaned his back against the trunk, and the lid closed with a click.

“Well?” I asked. 

“Well, what?”

“What’s the other problem? You said there was more than one.” 

“You should know.” 

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake. Isn’t this supposed to be the other way around? _I’m_ supposed to be the one asking you to read _my_ mind. I consider myself pretty damn smart in most areas, Richard, but I think you’ve guessed by now that when it comes to interpersonal stuff, I’m no Sherlock Holmes. So can you please tell me what the problem is so I can fix it?”

Richard kneaded his temples, as though I was giving him a headache. 

“I thought after Lockridge...I thought things would get better after that. You met my family. You called before leaving St. Louis when executing warrants. We made plans to go to my parent’s cabin in Arcadia after school let out for the summer and you accumulated more PTO. I thought...” Richard shook his head and laughed bitterly. “God, it sounds so pathetic.” 

“What?” 

“I thought you’d let me take care of you. You were so hurt. You were shaking like a leaf, and for the first time, I saw how...how small you really are. I don’t realize it, really. You’ve got such a big attitude. But when I saw you, bones broken, covered in bruises, I wanted to kill things. If the town weren’t a smoldering pile, I’d have gutted every last one of those motherfuckers. I hate this thing inside of me. I hate the urges, hate the bloodlust, but I’d have done it for you. I know you’re strong. I’m not trying to infantilize you. But _goddamnit_ , Anita, you don’t have to do this alone. I’d be here for you if you let me. Instead, you turn to _her_. You run off to New Orleans for six weeks and leave me behind, and when I finally see you again, she’s lurking a few rows up.” 

He let out a shaking breath. “I’m not sure what it says about you that you’d rather take a paycheck to unwind than take a week-long getaway with someone you claim to care about.” 

A flush crept up my neck, and my chest felt suddenly tight. My eyes burned. 

“I don’t want to have this conversation right now.” 

“In the car, then. I think we have company." 

Gretchen stalked toward us, face bone pale, but nonetheless lovely. She had aristocratic features. High sculpted cheekbones, a small but well-shaped nose, large crystal blue eyes, and champagne hair that fell in soft waves to her waist. Her long-sleeved sequined dress was an understated rose-gold that gathered at her tiny waist. The hemline ended mid-thigh, giving me a view of thighs so slender that Richard’s fingers could have probably touched if he wrapped a hand around them. 

I hated her on sight. It wasn’t just the glamor model perfection, or the Pavlovian need to lose ten pounds just because I’d had the misfortune to glance in her direction. It was the way she looked at me. The way a lot of women looked at me, honestly. 

Fresh anger bubbled in my gut at the utter contempt in her eyes, as she took in my now mussed hair, down from its already messy updo, my frayed jeans, my well-worn Nikes. At least the t-shirt was new and blood-free. Josh had mailed my Christmas present early. I wished he’d stop using his allowance on logo tees for me, but I had to admit it had made me smile. The shirt was black, with a cartoon penguin huddled on a melting iceberg. The text read, “My shirt has a penguin on it, which makes it better than your shirt.” The only thing I really had going for me was the long-lasting lip stain and minimal makeup that I’d applied in the bathroom before leaving Animators Inc. 

Not enough. Never enough, in the face of the competition. She was like Andria. So pretty. So perfect. She could have anyone, and she knew it. But it wasn’t enough to know it. She had to shove it my face in it too. 

“Non, ma poupette, pas tout de suite,” Jeanette said, in a pleading tone, tugging Gretchen back a step. “We’ll go to see the Brewery Lights-"

“Oui maintenant! J’ai assez attendu!” Gretchen hissed back. Then she rounded on me, jabbing a finger inches away from my nose. The air around us vibrated with power. 

“Stay away from Jeanette.” 

“That’s going to be difficult, with the whole human servant thing,” I drawled. “If I promise not to French her in public can we call this a night?”

I knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment it left my mouth. Jeanette let out a soft groan. The effect it had on Gretchen was immediate. 

Gretchen let out a cat-like hiss and lunged for me. If I hadn’t been on a mission with one of Edward’s teams recently, I’d have said she was the fastest bloodsucker I’d ever seen. Now just thinking it was laughable. I’d fought side by side and shared blood with Malicia Shankland, the longtime hatchet-woman of the Vampire Council. Compared to Malicia, Gretchen was a slow, ungainly toddler. 

Gretchen’s fangs were bared, but they came nowhere close to my throat. Though she was fast, she fought like a girl. Arms out, going for the eyes, hair, and throat, leaving her vitals exposed. I sank down low, out of her reach, and thrust a shoulder into her gut. It took her by surprise and knocked the wind from her. That was the funny thing about vampires. They didn’t technically need the air, but most of them wanted it. Their brains told them in the split second of confusion that they’d die without that precious life-sustaining stuff. Which, of course, was ridiculous. They were already dead. It was enough of a reprieve to get the job done, in my experience.

Before Gretchen could process what had happened, I’d gotten a grip on her, spun her toward the Jeep, and smashed her head into the back windshield so hard a crack spider-webbed out from the point of impact. I wasn’t sure if my newfound strength would hold up against hers, but it was a moot point when I thrust the Browning under the cinched bodice of her dress.

“Don’t move.” 

Tears glistened in Gretchen’s eyes before brimming over, running down her ivory cheeks. _Of course_ she had to look like a goddess when crying too.

Jeanette’s slender fingers closed around my wrist, though she knew better than to shift the gun and risk a misfire.

“Don’t shoot, ma petite. She meant no harm.”

“Yes, she did. She’d have ripped my throat out.”

“It’s not fair,” Gretchen hiccuped. Her eyes found Jeanette's, eyes imploring, and her lip wobbled. Even I felt bad for her. “It’s our time. You promised. I already have to share with your food. You promised me you’d take no serious lovers. She’ll steal you away from me.” 

“It was a joke. I’m not interested in Jeanette.” 

“Liar,” Gretchen said, glaring at me through the haze of tears. “I was there during the battle. I saw your embrace.” 

“People do funny things when they survive a war, Gretchen. Jeanette warned me about it before we went into battle. It doesn’t change the fact I’m dating Richard. You want Jeanette? Have her. I’ve got better places to be, and even though this is technically justifiable homicide, I don’t think you’re worth the paperwork.” 

“Anita, maybe you shouldn’t antagonize her again,” Richard said in a warning tone, his warm, calloused hand sliding under my coat and shirt, bracing my back in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture. It wasn’t. The moment he touched me, power spilled down my back in a scalding rush. 

My first, gut reaction was panic. The memory of Valentine’s hands on me, tearing cloth from my legs, baring me to the torturous assault to come. The unimaginable pain as the heat sank deep, cooking my flesh. But this heat merely zinged over the surface of my skin, light and playful like a splash of candle wax in the bedroom. A little painful, with an answering curl of pleasure. 

It called to me, coaxed that clenched metaphysical muscle inside me to relax, allowed my necromancy to flow free and outward into Jeanette. The warmth jumped from my skin to hers, like a spark of static electricity. She gasped, the pushback of her own power automatic. Deep, abiding cold, discipline, and icy logic. The warmth sought it, tried to conquer it, tried to smash that careful control. 

I tore away from them both with a cry, backing away from Gretchen, away from Richard, away from Jeanette. My hands shook. I had no idea what had just happened, and I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to get the hell out of here. 

“I need to go,” I croaked, shoving the Browning back in its holster. 

Gretchen collapsed, sobbing, into Jeanette’s arms. Jeanette and Richard were giving me almost identical looks of shock. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promised, nodding to Richard. 

Then I did the one thing I swore I’d never do. 

I turned tail and ran. 


	5. Chapter 5

My hands were shaking so badly on the drive over that I arrived at the meeting point Downtown with only five minutes to spare. The St. Louis Riverfront Trail started near the gateway arch, and if the night had been clearer, moonlight would have shimmered in a gleaming crescent across the sky. Instead, powdery snow continued to flutter past, cutting visibility by half. 

Sigh.

At a glance, I estimated around fifty volunteers, five groups of ten, with at least one animator or therian to a group. Possibly both. I spotted a few familiar faces in the groups closest to the parking lot and guessed that RPIT had donated a few psychics to the cause as well. 

A fussy-looking brunette with a clipboard and a peeling “Hello my name is” sticker plastered to her checkered shirt glanced up at me, pursed her lips, and checked a box with a testy flick of her wrist. I squinted and could just make out the name Temperance. Something about her round cheeks seemed naggingly familiar, but I couldn’t place why. 

She was young, probably school-aged. She should be at home doing algebra or making out with her boyfriend, not trolling the river for bloated corpses. 

“By process of elimination, I’m guessing you’re Anita Blake. Now that The Executioner has deigned to grace us with her presence, we can get underway. You’ll be with Team A. You’ll be with Detective Sims, those two creatures, and my pa. They’re at the front of the line.” 

She pointed further up the sidewalk toward a huddled group. I recognized at least three of the figures at a glance. Ronnie had popped her collar to keep the wind off the back of her neck and rounded on a passing motorist, jamming a finger at the road when their car sprayed sleet and rock salt at the crowd gathered on the side of the road.

My eyes narrowed. Ah. So this girl was an avid fan of Humans First rhetoric, it seemed. Maybe the name should have been a clue. Some virtue names like Grace were common. But Temperance? Not so much. 

I smiled sweetly at her. At least, I tried to. I ran low on sugar on an average day, and nice had never been my strong suit. Spice was about all I had to offer, and I didn’t think Temperance would appreciate a taste. 

She held out a sticker and a Sharpie. I took it from her with a smile, wrote my name in the box, and slapped it on my shirt before returning the Sharpie. 

“Be careful out there, okay?” 

"I’ll be with a police detective and vampire hunters. I think you’re the one who should be the one who should worry, Executioner. The male looks mean." 

“It’s actually the woman I’m worried about,” I muttered. “Really, Temperance. Just go home. You don’t have to fall in line with this bullshit just because your parents do.” 

Temperance opened her mouth, probably to deliver a scathing retort. I stepped past her before she could complete the thought, breaking into a light jog, bypassing groups J through B. The snow had been packed down by the milling crowd of volunteers and was slick as hell. I stumbled and almost fell on my face twice, even with the tread on my Nikes. 

My foot slipped from under me when I was a few feet away from Group A, and I skidded to a stop just shy of Ronnie’s waterproof winter boots. I got a very good look at the hot pink laces before following the line of her jean-clad leg to her torso, and then finally to her smirking face. 

“And...safe!” she said, affecting the tone of a Major-League umpire. 

“Not if I can help it,” another voice muttered. 

Snow soaked through my jeans as I pushed onto my knees and turned my torso to get a good look at the speaker. 

Former Police Detective Jessica Arnet leaned against a steel divider, half of her face lost to shadow. Her hair was the color of a roasted chestnut, with just a few highlights to keep it from looking black. She was taller than me by a few inches, with a delicate oval face. I bet that, like me, she’d been underestimated a lot when she was younger. We blended into the background. Not shiny, not flashy, not loud. 

And sometimes that was good. Sometimes the assholes never saw the punch coming before they were on the ground.

If she hadn’t spoken, it might have taken me longer to notice her there, even with half her body still visible. Like me, she was wearing all black. Black coat, black shirt, black jeans, and black boots. She’d even pulled a beanie down to cover her ears.

A smile pulled at my lips, and I knew without checking a mirror it didn’t touch my eyes. I’d exceeded my bullshit quota for the evening. 

“Ah, Detective. So nice to see you. How’s the hand treating you?” 

The fingers of Arnet’s right hand flexed at her waist like she wanted to go for a sidearm. The skin was shiny and pink, but otherwise whole. In only two-and-a-half months, she’d regrown the limb from a forearm down after receiving a transfusion from a local werelion. The few times I’d checked in on her, Joseph said she was adapting well. _More_ than well, actually. Arnet’s beast was confrontational, a dominant with the potential to call a powerful mate. It could upset the balance of power in the pride. If Joseph hadn’t been such a family man, things could have gotten ugly fast.

She glowered at me. “Don’t think that it makes us even, Blake. I don’t like you.” 

“That’s fine, Arnet. I don’t like you either.” 

“Come on, girls, don’t fight,” Simon said, sidling up to me with a smirk. “You’re both very pretty.” 

Ordinarily, that smug, patronizing line would have made me punch the idiot who’d spewed it right in the bicep, but this time I just grinned. I hadn’t seen Simon since visiting Arnet in the hospital in October. Ronnie and I spoke sporadically over the phone, usually to compare notes on cases, and lately, we hadn’t even done that. There was always the chance that Arnet would answer, and Ronnie didn’t want to upset her new recruit. 

Simon’s mohawk probably scandalized the conservative members of Humans First. When I first met him I’d thought the black and white stripes in his hair were a fashion choice, like his many gauges and tattoos. Something to further solidify the badass persona he’d built over the years. As if, at 6’4, and 240 pounds of pure muscle, he’d needed the help.

No, the stripes were genetic. A clue to his genetic heritage. Wereskunks were a born therianthropic strain. He shaved mostly bald because they were even _more_ pronounced if he grew it out. Think Pepé Le Pew.

I might have jumped on him. And shimmied up him like a Koala bear. But in my defense, I’d had a hard night, and I hadn’t squeezed the hulking wereskunk in a long time.

“Hey there, shorty,” he said, curling his massive biceps around my waist. 

“God, I missed you, you freakishly tall, punk band reject!” 

His chuckle vibrated through my chest and he squeezed me just a little tighter before setting me back on my feet. 

“Missed you too, Anita.” 

A soft, contemptuous sound drew my eye to the last member of our group. Pieces clicked into place, and I realized why Temperance seemed so familiar. I’d met her pa earlier in the day. The man who stood behind me had changed out of the starched guard’s uniform and into a gray sweatshirt, cargo pants, and a camouflage ball cap.

“More than one of ‘em, huh, Executioner?” Max asked, eyes narrowing on my face. 

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the theater?”

“My shift ended early, as you can imagine. Managed to drive my daughter over, and her mother will join our son next week. We got a duty to our community. Some of us take this seriously. We do our jobs and we don’t cuddle up with the monsters.” 

I almost told him to go fuck himself, but Ronnie cut me off.

“We’re wasting time, people. Let’s get a move on. Simon and Anita, you’re in the front. Anita will tell us if she senses any bodies, and Simon can sniff them out in his beast form.” 

Max jerked back. “What in tarnation? That was not what we agreed on! Everyone knows they need meat during and after their shift. He’ll attack us.” 

Simon heaved a sigh and stripped off his shirt. I caught Arnet eyeing him speculatively. I couldn’t blame her. It _was_ a nice chest. 

“I don’t eat people, and I certainly wouldn’t eat you. Even _I_ have better taste.” 

“Detective Sims!” Max shouted. “Stop him!” 

“It’s safe. Simon is a born therianthrope. He’s not infectious in human or animal form. Zerbrowski approved this. Calm your tits, sir.”

“Miss Blake,” Max begged, turning to me, eyes wide and terrified. All the contempt had drained away now. It was almost sad, really. “Please. My daughter is just up the road. Stop him. He’ll kill us.”

Simon shimmied out of his jeans next and then hunched forward. The change was smooth, nearly instantaneous. I’d never seen a born therianthrope change shape before, but I supposed it made sense it would be quicker and easier than their infected counterparts. Their bodies were made for this, the lubrication natural, magic an intrinsic part of their being, not something grafted on after the fact. 

In seconds, a skunk the size of a Mastiff stood shivering on the sidewalk, shaking ectoplasm from its fur. I turned to Max with a smirk. 

“I’ll tell you what. If he turns tail and sprays you, I’ll buy you all the tomato juice you need.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know that tomato juice only masks the smell, and there are actually other ways to get rid of it, but I think that would actually be part of the joke for Anita. I don't think she'd actually want to help him. XD Sorry don't mean to explain a joke, but I know someone would probably point it out to me.


	6. Chapter 6

A half-hour into the hike, and my feet were going numb, my calves burned, and my head ached dully with every beat of my heart. 

Our groups spread out along the twelve miles that made up the Riverfront trail, searching for any new corpses that may have washed ashore. River water slapped onto the banks near our feet, keeping them mostly free of snow. The tradeoff was a layer of mud, algae, and a distinctive fishy odor that always clung to a large, muddy body of water. 

That always seemed to surprise people who’d never grown up around rivers or lakes. I wasn’t sure what they expected. It was a furrow cutting through the earth, collecting mud, plant life, animal shit, and debris along the way. It was a breeding ground for microbes. Every river was a biome, teeming with life. Of course it wasn’t going to smell like chlorine and suntan lotion.

Every few minutes something new would ping my radar, but often it was a false alarm. Loathe as I was to admit it, dad had been right to send me away from home. Until recently, I’d never met someone with a gift as potent as mine. 

Most people who manifested an ability with the dead could sense ghosts. At least half of those could speak with them, but mediums weren’t exactly rare. You could find one on every street corner in every major city. Even Bert had a few on staff, though they’d been vetted for legitimate talent. No cold reading and bogus sage waving at Animators Inc. Many of our mediums worked with renter’s agencies to sell homes. Tenants wouldn’t sign a lease if there was a poltergeist in the house, just waiting to upend their credenza, and Bert made sure that our clients got what they paid for. 

Animators were a cut above. It took talent to call anything from the grave, even something as small as an animal. I’d begun raising scads of them without meaning to when I was a preteen. It had taken months to master my power, and years not to spiral into anxiety any time I had to raise something small to keep my abilities in check.

With my senses open, seeking the dead, I felt like that little girl again, hunched against the onslaught. Death was everywhere. A desiccated vole, half-hidden under matted leaves and a layer of snow, just up the slope. A Northern Pike caught in the current, being carried along with the current. Raccoons, possums, deer. I only sent Simon to check if the shape was large enough to be human, and thus far, nothing had panned out. 

There was something ahead I couldn’t read. I wasn’t sure if it was a psychic hotspot or an inhuman corpse. 

Wereanimals didn’t feel the same as human corpses. Last week, Manny and a group of Humans First volunteers uncovered the body of a wererat that washed onto the banks of the river. It looked like the poor man had gotten trapped in the undergrowth and hadn’t been shaken loose until a few weeks after the fact. 

Rafael had identified the body as Emanuel Correa, a recent addition to the Rodere who’d gotten a job as a deckhand just days before Mr. Oliver unleashed Apep into the river. Sometimes irony was just a bitch. Jeanette had him interred in the EMCB Memorial Crypt when his family refused to claim his body. 

“So you were on a date?” Ronnie asked, trying for a would-be casual tone. She failed miserably.

Max had thankfully bowed out an hour after we’d started, opting to join a group without a giant wereskunk, though not before he’d gone over the incident at the Fox Theater in detail. I had to say; I missed his dazzling wit and oily, Ronald Jeremy-esque pornstache already. 

My Nikes slid in the mud, and water sloshed into my shoes, shockingly cold. I grit my teeth against a groan of protest. If Arnet, Simon, and Ronnie could tough out the cold, I could too. I’d survived a Minnesota blizzard. Missouri winters should be a pushover. 

Tell that to my frozen, waterlogged toes. 

“Yes, Ronnie, I was on a date,” I said through clenched teeth. I didn’t want to give Arnet the satisfaction of hearing them chatter. 

Without Max to contend with, we’d fanned out, forming a shallow v-shape, with Arnet and Simon just a few paces ahead, and Ronnie and I lagging behind, exchanging small talk now and then. It was clear she’d been dying to ask this question from minute one. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were dating again?” Again, she tried to keep the question nonchalant. I didn’t buy it. 

Ronnie was one of my first adult friends. Despite being four years my senior, I’d felt like her house mother, most of the time. I’d held her hair out of her face as she hunched over sticky toilets in seedy bars, saved her from one-night stands with men who she admitted she wouldn’t have slept with when she was sober, and been there when she’d had a pregnancy scare. 

We’d supported each other during the worst parts of our lives. Her harrowing year-long divorce proceedings, as her husband tried to gouge every penny he could from her, and the bloodbath that was my wedding. It was a wonder either of us was still standing. I heard the note of accusation in her voice. Knew what it meant. 

Why was I letting a man stand between us? Why protect Manny, after everything he’d done? He’d helped Dominga Salvador kill eight innocent women, and for what? Why the hell couldn’t I just turn him in?

Because I knew what it was like not to have one of your parents. That absence could never be filled by anything or anyone else. Tomas was so young. Younger than I’d been when I’d lost my mother. I couldn’t take his father away from him.

I couldn’t explain it to Ronnie. Not really. Her mom and dad had divorced, sure, but they were both alive. They’d both remarried, and she seemed happy enough. Twice the celebration. Twice the love. Somehow her fractured family had come together, unlike mine. 

“It’s only the second time we’ve gone out. I thought you said it doesn’t count until we’ve been out three times.” It came out as barely a whisper. My throat felt tight.

“Anita...” 

No. Not going there. Ronnie would want to analyze the argument I’d had with Richard, and I was so not in the mood for a round of female syllogistics right now, especially not in front of witnesses. I could see Arnet just ahead of us, her plump lips turned up in a smug little smile, probably scenting my lies and mounting frustration, and enjoying every second of it. 

“How’s the investigation going?” I asked.

Ronnie sighed. “Don’t change the subject.” 

“Fine. The date wasn’t great. We watched a man fall and be gruesomely injured. I’m now trekking through mud and snow, inches of river water sloshing around in my shoes, head aching, playing a round of twenty-one questions while facing the wrong end of a wereskunk. Happy?”

Ronnie sighed. “Do you need a Motrin? I think I have some in my bag.” 

“Don’t bother. It’s just psychic pressure. I think it’ll pass when I stop using my ability.” 

“Does it always hurt to use psychic ability? Should I be hoarding ibuprofen for Jess in the office?” 

I shook my head, watching Arnet’s back as she rounded a corner. She had to duck low as the gnarled gray branches of a river birch dragged at her hair and tried to pluck the beanie from her head. The moon was peeking through the crowds now, reflecting off the water, giving us more than the wavering beams from our flashlights. The green lenses taped to the front might preserve our night vision, but could be damn eerie when you were navigating in the dark.

“I don’t know what her ability is, but I’d say no. I have to open myself wide before this happens and there have to be a lot of dead things around. The last time I was around this much death...” 

The town had been a literal graveyard. Something told me I wasn’t allowed to disclose any mission I’d done on Van Cleef’s behalf. 

“Indexing,” Arnet said.

“What?” I asked.

“My ability. It’s called indexing.” 

I frowned. “I’ve never heard of it, actually.” 

I subscribed to a lot of magazines on the subject and kept up with most of the diagnostic manuals. New psychic powers were being discovered every year, though the validity of some were hotly debated. 

“Of course you haven’t, because most people brush it off as photographic memory. Indexing isn’t the best description of what I do. It’s not just that I can remember what I see. I know how it relates to what I want to know next. Where to find that information. Dolph called me a bloodhound.” 

Her face screwed up in disgust, and she laughed bitterly.

“He wanted me to work with you. Said ‘Blake will point us toward a lead, and you’ll sniff it out. You’ll make an excellent team.’ Now we’re both out in the cold. What a fucking joke, right?” 

What did I say to that? It _was_ unfair. Dolph drove a wedge between us before we’d even talked to one another. Now she was working with my best friend, trying to bring in my mentor for murder. That couldn’t endear her to me, either. 

Arnet’s glare was scorching, her eyes burning gold. Lion eyes, still framed by thick human lashes. She hadn’t shifted yet. Excellent control, for someone only a few months out. That stare demanded an answer I couldn’t give. The wind lifted her hair, tossing it into her eyes. 

And then everything about her posture changed. She stiffened, twisting around, lifting her face to the wind. Her nostrils flared, scenting the air.

Shit. 

There was fresh meat in the vicinity. I wasn’t sure what moron was staggering around gushing blood at midnight on a school night, but hey, everyone had to have a hobby. 

Arnet darted forward, moving with swift, leonine grace, outdistancing Ronnie easily. Simon had to push his stubby skunk legs to their limit to keep pace with her. She kicked viciously at him when he got underfoot, launching him into the river. I prayed to God he hadn’t been knocked unconscious and could swim to shore. 

It gave me just enough time to reach Arnet. She was faster than me, yes. Probably stronger than me, too. But she was distracted, her beast so close to the surface that I could feel it tearing at her skin like a parade of fire ants. She wasn’t prepared when I took her to the ground, using one of the Judo throws I’d learned over the years. 

Who knows? She might have been able to block me. Arnet had earned a badge. She had training that I didn’t.

My momentum carried us a few feet, and we landed with Arnet on bottom. I pinned her in place with my weight, used all my ill-gotten strength to hold her in place, and hooked my ankle around her knee, and pinned the other immobile, so she couldn’t buck me off. She still tried to thrash, to turn toward the shapes next to us on the bank. 

I dared a peek at them and wished I hadn’t. 

There was a moment of disconnect. In the wavering, neon green of Ronnie’s bobbing flashlight, the nearest shape looked like a Barbie doll that washed up on the shore by mistake. It wore a collar studded with pink rhinestones that read “Bad Kitty.” Auburn hair formed a glossy curtain from the figure’s crown down to its ankles. It was the only thing that was recognizably human. The rest...oh _God_ , the rest. 

Because, in an instant, it was incredibly, horrifyingly _real_. The figure inches away from me was a human. Or very human-like. The hands had taken on a blunted paw-like shape, but there were only mangled holes where claws should have been. The face was stretched into a feline shape, fine whiskers protruding from the naked flesh. That was all they’d left. _Flesh_. 

Blood glistened wetly on exposed muscle fiber. It was like looking at a live anatomical model. If I looked, I could have named the different muscle groups, point out the tendons connecting them to bones. They’d taken it all. Every inch of skin was gone. They’d even taken the time to peel back the folds of his testes, and the skin on the shaft of his cock. 

_Jesus fucking Christ._

The other figure moaned, faint but audible. I risked a glance at her and released a shaking breath. After the first body, she was in the running for Miss Universe. Her golden hair fanned out in a wave behind her, stained with blood. She was ashy pale, and the skin on her right arm from fingertips to shoulder was missing. 

She was wearing a black satin push-up bra, crotchless panties, holding a crop in her uninjured hand, and had a hundred tucked into the control top of her fishnets. I didn’t have to guess what the pair had been up to before someone had attacked them. The question was, why here, and what exactly had done this? Was this the secondary location, and whatever sick freak we were dealing with had scampered after hearing Arnet approach? 

Ronnie took one look at the scene, bent at the waist, and puked. Honestly? I felt like doing the same. But I’d puked on a body one time too many. 

Simon dragged himself spluttering from the river, human, dripping wet, and distractingly nude. Ordinarily, it’d make me blush cranberry red, but tonight, I’d take it. He dropped to his knees on the shore, eyes wide, staring at the flayed shape beside me. 

“Oh my God, Nathaniel! He’s...He’s still breathing.”

How? How the fuck could he hear that? I couldn’t hear a damn thing over the pulse in my ears and the rushing sound in my ears as I fought the insistent urge to vomit.

“Someone call an ambulance. Now!”

Ronnie was still retching. Simon was naked and shedding river water. I guess that left me. 

I reached into my pocket, drew out my phone with shaking fingers, and dialed 911.


	7. Chapter 7

Static poured from the speakers of the boxy television set that balanced precariously on an end table near the door. It was a hundred-pound square of gray plastic, metal, and wires. The picture was fuzzy, and the sound was a joke. Every so often, the picture jumped.

The relic of a bygone era had probably been purchased from a thrift store. The U.S. public health system was already criminally underfunded and understaffed, and funding for preternatural health organizations was almost non-existent. Only charity, anonymous donations from closeted but wealthy wereanimals, and the grace of God kept the clinics we had open.

Dr. Lilian and her staff didn’t have the time or resources to worry about things like television, magazine subscriptions, or coffee in their waiting rooms. Bert’s coffee tasted like liquid ambrosia compared to the weak, watered-down instant stuff in my cup. I couldn’t decide if it was better or worse with the powdered creamer. Worse, probably. The little globules of the stuff refused to melt, no matter how hard I prodded them with the swizzle stick.

“I could have killed him,” Arnet whispered, setting her coffee aside. She’d barely touched it.

From the moment we arrived, she’d hunched over in her chair, staring at the laces on the white orthopedic shoes that a nurse named Rachel had loaned her. There were scuff marks across the top, and Arnet stared at the small imperfections like they were the most fascinating things she’d ever seen.

Rachel had also loaned her a pair of pink scrubs, patterned with kittens. Mine were black and patterned with cacti. Go figure. The dive into the mud had ruined our clothes. When I arrived home, I’d order a copy of Josh’s Christmas present and wear it home for the holidays. It was the least I could do. He wasn’t the one who’d fucked it up.

I didn’t have to ask who Arnet meant by “he.” There was only one “he” that mattered tonight.

“Yes, you could have.”

Arnet’s fingers dug into the peeling red upholstery on her chair. “Damn it, Blake. I’m trying to talk to you.”

“ _No_ , you want me to lie to you. You want me to say that your human mind would have won the day and that you would have stopped before you hurt someone. _That’s_ what you want to hear. It’s what you want to believe about yourself. You want to believe that the rules don’t apply to you, that you’d be different somehow. But that’s not the truth, Arnet. You’re a young shapeshifter. Dominant does not equal intelligent or controlled.”

Arnet half-rose out of her chair. “Are you calling me stupid?”

“I’m saying that you need to calm down. The little pity party you’re throwing for yourself? It’s not helping anyone. You fucked up. Welcome to the club. We meet every day that ends in Y. Ronnie and Simon are giving their statements to Clive and Zerbrowski now. We talked about it when Nathaniel and the hooker he was seeing were being loaded up-"

“Avril,” Arnet muttered. “They found an ID. They said her name was Avril.”

“Alright, we talked while Nathaniel and Avril were being loaded into the ambulance and you had a meltdown. We’re not telling them.”

Arnet’s eyebrows drew together. “Not telling them what?”

“Not telling them you lost control. So far as Zerbrowski knows, you and I were mucking around in the river looking for bodies when we found Nathaniel and Avril. No harm, no foul.”

She raised her eyes to my face, and I saw for the first time they were a rich tawny color, with a ring of dark, almost black around the iris, and a hint of green-gold at the center. Breathtaking. Her eyes were definitely her best feature. They were guarded and uncertain as she stared up at me.

“Lying to the police is a crime. They could charge you with obstruction of justice.”

“Where’s the lie? You caught the scent, and we were mucking around in the water. You didn’t maul Nathaniel. Both victims are still alive, and you didn’t lay a finger on either body.”

“But-"

“Your world doesn’t work the way it used to. You won’t be arrested for attacking someone, Arnet. A judge will put out a warrant of execution, and I’m the nearest executioner. Do you want me to shoot you?”

Arnet sank back into her chair, shoulders slumped. “No.”

“Then stick to the story.”

Arnet didn’t answer, and the static-filled news report crept in to fill the silence. The female reporter’s peroxide-blonde hair was cut in an A-line bob that barely shifted when she moved, and she had a shining white smile that never wavered, no matter how hideous the news. She beamed at the camera, even as she intoned;

_“Another family in Princeton Heights reports finding the scattered remains of what appear to be animal carcasses. Police suspect the plot may involve one or more therianthropes...”_

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” I muttered.

“Lying for me. I don’t even like you. If our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t do it for you.”

“You’re a bitch, not a murderer. I don’t think you deserve to be shot because you made a mistake. I may not like you, but you’re a good cop. You wouldn’t have been on the Spook Squad if you weren’t. I asked Ronnie to take you on because I know you can make a difference. I know this isn’t what you want. I know you’re pissed off. But life happens. You make a new plan, and you move on.”

“You don’t know my life, Blake! You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything you spent your life working toward!”

“Yeah, I do, actually. Do you know what I planned to do in college? I planned to graduate with a degree in preternatural biology, get married, serve a tour in the Army, and possibly go into R and D. They kicked me out of the ROTC program when my animating ability was discovered. Not long after, vampires killed my fiance _at our wedding_. I'd just said my vows, Arnet, the ring was on my fucking finger. I was the only one to survive the bloodbath. I took a gap year so I wouldn't eat the barrel of my gun, I finished my degree online, and I sorted my shit out. It was _not_ easy. But I pulled through. You will too.”

Arnet gave me wide eyes. “Seriously? Dolph never said...”

“Dolph doesn’t say much, period. He’s the stolid, silent type who’d be content to be marooned with a Wilson Sporting Goods volleyball. I don’t know when he transformed into the office gossip, or why he seems to hate me in particular.”

Arnet chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s you, really. I heard Zerbrowski and Clive talking about it and...”

“Oh, come on. You can’t say something like that and then leave me hanging.”

“Keep in mind that it’s just a rumor, and if you breathe a word of where you heard this, I’m going to kill you.” She heaved a sigh and sank a little lower in her chair. She picked idly at a crack in the upholstery, peeling off red flakes as she spoke. “Zerbrowski thinks that it’s Dolph’s son.”

“Paul?”

I’d met Dolph’s oldest at a Christmas party for the Department. His youngest, Darrin, was mediating a difficult court case and hadn’t been able to attend.

“No, Darrin. He’s gotten engaged.”

I frowned at her. “Isn’t that usually good news?”

“Not when his fiance is a member of the Church of Eternal Life and planning to turn him after the honeymoon. Dolph’s already upset that Paul can’t give him any biological grandkids because of Emily’s PCOS. Now his youngest son wants to marry that, and I quote, ‘frigid bitch.’ He’s pissed off. I hear he’s trying to keep Darrin away from his fiance, but it’s only driving a wedge between them.”

“And when I became a Human Servant, it pushed him over the edge.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “Or maybe he’s tired of your insubordinate bullshit. Could go either way, honestly.”

I laughed, despite myself, and took a swig of my coffee. Our eyes met over the rim of the cup.

I didn’t like her yet. But maybe someday I could. I lifted the cup and gave her a slight nod.

“Touché,”

She smirked, retrieved her coffee, and took a sip, nodding back.

Progress.

***

The clinic walls were beige, the floors the cheapest white tile that money could buy. The drop ceiling comprised pockmarked tiles, and every few feet or so fluorescent lights flickered, casting pools of orange light into the hall. After padding down the halls looking for Zerbrowski, I made an early New Year’s resolution to send a quarter of every paycheck to the St. Louis therian clinics. They needed the funding if only to buff the floors and replace the bulbs. How could anyone navigate the halls, let alone perform surgery?

When I rounded a corner, I found Zerbrowski leaning over a woman in her mid-to-late fifties. She had salt-and-pepper hair, a lined face, and enough bristling energy to make the average man nervous. Zerbrowski wasn’t much taller than she was, but he was taking a page from Dolph’s playbook, using his height to loom over her. The fact he was a spare man wearing tortoiseshell glasses, a mussed suit, and mustard-stained Garfield tie ruined the effect. Hard to put the fear of God into a pissed-off wererat doctor when you couldn’t even keep your suit pressed.

“What do you mean you can’t do anything for him?”

“Just what I said,” Dr. Lilian snapped. “I can’t do anything at the moment. He’s lost almost eighty percent of his skin, Detective. Do you know what that means?”

A queasy feeling settled in my gut. I had a good idea, and the feeling only intensified as Dr. Lilian continued.

“For one, it’s a miracle he’s alive. If he wasn't a wereleopard, he’d be dead. Almost nothing can survive this level of trauma. The shock and blood loss alone could kill a person. The skin had to be removed in large, unbroken sheets, and he felt it when the nerves were severed. They cut out his tongue to keep him from screaming. The blade seems to have been steel, so we’re hopeful he’ll grow the missing pieces back.”

Zerbrowski was looking a little green and swallowed convulsively a few times. Dr. Lilian held up a finger before he could open his mouth to ask another question.

“Then there’s the location of the flaying itself. They found him near a river, steeped in mud. It’s a breeding ground for microbes and without his skin, he’ll almost certainly develop a secondary infection. My bet is _Vibrio vulnificus_ , which can cause necrotizing fasciitis. But in a hospital setting, we could also be looking at _Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus_.”

MRSA. The nightmare superbug that could lead very quickly to septic shock. Even the name would send a shudder down most doctors' spines. I’d gotten lecture after lecture from my father about the dangers of overprescribing and incorrectly taking antibiotics.

MRSA lived on the epidermis. Outside the body it was harmless, just part of the skin flora, but when it found its way into an open wound...

“But what does it matter? I thought the therian metabolism could handle anything. Wake him up and make him shift back!” Zerbrowski’s voice was rising. I’d never seen him like this.

My heart beat a little faster. Zerbrowski didn’t lose his cool. He was the class clown, not the heavy.

“I can’t!” Dr. Lillian was shouting now. “Don’t you get it? Whatever sicko did this trapped him in half-man form. I’m a medical doctor. I trained to treat the human body. His organs aren’t human, but they aren’t animal either. They’re some combination of the two, and I have no clue how to help him. I’ve called anyone in the area who might have zoological expertise and would be willing to help me form a plan of attack. Zookeepers, cryptozoologists, preternatural biologists with field experience. Hell, I'd take a vet with a wereleopard brother if I had to. I’ve only got a few nibbles at this point. Mostly, the answer is not only no, but _hell_ no. While Mr. Graison is trapped like this, the virus is active. Any human in contact with his blood might catch Ailuranthropy." 

"Does it have to be a human? Surely there's someone-"

"The law that passed in '06 means that most of us with medical degrees have to recertify. That's ten to twelve years we spent in school down the toilet because we caught a disease. I was lucky. I was outed and I started the process early. Most of my colleagues aren't so lucky. We won't have a wave of new therian staff for years. Most fields won't, actually. So yes, Mr. Graison's fate rests in the hands of a human doctor, if one can be found. God help him."

Dr. Lillian sagged against the wall, the air going out of her in a rush like someone had bowled into her. Her voice was quiet when she spoke.

“I'm sorry, Detective. He can’t give you a statement. Even if he could speak, I couldn’t condone it. He’s in an incredible amount of pain. It would be inhumane to discontinue the morphine at this point. I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”

Exhaustion lined Zerbrowski’s face, but when he turned and spotted me peeking around the corner, it hardened into something darker.

Zerbrowski had a head of dark, curly hair going a little gray at the temples. He was thirteen years my senior, and on an ordinary day, he didn’t look it. He was constantly cracking jokes, ready with a double entendre that would make my cheeks burn. But now his hazel eyes were flat and empty. He took measured steps, stopping a few feet away from me.

I waited for a smile, for the lines around his eyes to crinkle or dip to my cleavage. This outfit was just begging for a naughty nurse joke. Instead, he said;

“Ms. Blake.”

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t play this game with me. We’ve been friends for years, Zerbrowski. You can at least call me Anita. I've earned that."

“Fine, then. Tell me what happened.”

“I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know. We were hiking along the riverbank, Arnet caught the scent of blood, and we followed it to the bodies.”

Zerbrowski scrutinized my expression, giving me serious cop eyes. He wasn’t an idiot. Arnet was only a few months into her transition. Practically a baby, in therian terms. Strong, yes, but not experienced. I could see the gears turning in his head. Two bloodied bodies and a therian nearby. A consultant turned traitor with a history of witness tampering and obstruction of justice.

“Uh-huh.”

“You think I did this?” I asked. My voice broke on the last word. I couldn’t help it.

The horror kept playing behind my eyes. Nathaniel, slicked with blood, reduced to bare slabs of muscle, dropped in the mud like he was nothing but garbage. Zerbrowski was my friend. How could he think I was capable of something like this?

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I...no, of course not. I just...it’s suspicious. This Nathaniel kid is attached to your boss. He’s a stripper at her club.”

“He is?”

His mouth mashed into a hard, angry line and a hot burst of anger flashed across his face, the first hint of emotion he’d shown since he’d spotted me.

“Do not bullshit me, Anita!”

“I’m not! Until an hour ago, I’d never heard of Nathaniel Graison. I had no idea he existed, let alone that he worked for Jeanette. I’ve already told you that this human servant business wasn’t my idea. Mostly, it’s politics. I go to dinner, I make small talk, cut ribbons, kiss babies. All that good shit. What makes you think I know anything about her personal life?”

“Because you always know more than you let on. I understand that there’s a line. You rat out a source, and they don’t talk next time. That’s one thing. This is different.”

Zerbrowski paced the hall, shoving his hands through his short, springy curls. His hands shook and sweat popped on his forehead. He looked pale, and a little sick. Underneath it all was still that tinge of green.

“With the District Serial Case, Dolph was willing to let it go. You’ve done outstanding work in the past, and we had no reason not to believe you. If you’d come forward about your marks then, told us what she’d done to you, maybe things could have been different. But no, we had to hear about your new job on the evening news, just like everyone else.”

“Zerbrowski-“

“I’m not done!” he snapped. “And then there was the Salvador Case. At first, I thought Dolph was being irrational. You did the best you could for us with the information provided. I could even look the other way when you gave us the slip. It was a hostage negotiation, and there were kids involved. But the bodies of Dominga Salvador, her grandsons, and several of Gaynor’s staff were never found. We found a casket with a six hundred-year-old corpse, a dead cow, and tire tracks leading away from the scene. Not long after, Gaynor and his fiance die under suspicious circumstances, leaving his ex the sole heir to his estate. That’s shady as shit, don’t you think?”

He didn’t give me time to answer before launching into yet another spiel.

“And if that weren’t enough, you failed to warn us that a member of the goddamn Vampire Council was in town and had attacked your master. That information could have saved lives. What’s the official death toll now, huh? You’ve fished forty or more out of the river. Does that put us over five hundred and fifty? Or is it five hundred and sixty? I’ve lost track.”

“What’s your point?” I snapped.

I shoved my hands into my scrub pockets, so he wouldn’t see them shake. The new position pressed the Browning uncomfortably against my breast. Something told me that shoulder holsters weren’t meant to be worn comfortably with scrub tops but damned if I was going to part with mine after what I’d seen tonight.

“When the news breaks, it’s going to be a shitshow, and I don’t want you anywhere near it. You’re a dirty cop, Anita. You’re in this monster shit up to your eyeballs, and I don’t think we can trust you anymore. You won’t be consulted on this case. Or on any case, for that matter. Consider yourself persona non grata.”

I turned away from him, screwing my eyes shut, feeling the burn begin behind my eyelids. I refused to let another man bring me to the verge of tears.

“So long and thanks for all the fish, asshole,” I muttered. “Tell Katie to keep in touch.”

I turned on my heel and was halfway down the hall before Zerbrowski called to me.

“Doc Lillian says Davenay is the kid’s only emergency contact and his power of attorney. No one has been able to contact her. She wants Jeanette here as soon as possible, just in case...”

In case someone had to pull the plug.

“Got it,” I muttered, swiping a hand across my eyes.

I marched down the hall and banged through the doors before he could hear a distinct sniffle.


	8. Chapter 8

I pushed my Jeep as fast as I dared in the snow. It was already a quarter past three, and Jeanette would only have a few hours to make decisions on Nathaniel’s behalf. Assuming there were any decisions to be made by the time we got back, besides burial or cremation. 

God, I’m cheerful. 

I marched toward Iniquity, mud-slicked jacket flapping in the wind, Browning on display while shivering girls in cocktail dresses and caked-on makeup watched in open-mouthed shock. The neon sign above the door drenched the crowd in red light like they’d been caught in a sudden spurt of arterial spray. 

Bile crept up my throat. That was so not a visual I needed tonight. 

An undead bouncer waited by the door. He had a dark crew cut, blue-gray eyes, and a devilish smile. His fangs caught the light as he turned to the next customer, waving her through. That smile dropped when his gaze traveled down the line and finally landed on me. Poor Buzz. I never made his job easier. 

To his credit, he didn’t put up even token resistance when I cut in line. He gently pulled a skinny blonde from my path. 

“Where is she?” 

“In the back. She’s in the office with her girlfriend and she’s told her PA to hold all calls. I don’t think she wants to be disturbed.” 

A little heat crept into my face as I recalled her warning in the graveyard. No space was safe now that she was dating again. I’d been inside her head when she was being… _intimate_ with someone. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see it in person. Which viewing experience was more mortifying? Third-person, or first? 

Regardless of the source, something had changed when I looked at Meng Die. She seemed to know it, too, because she smirked anytime we passed one another in public. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to tear her hair out or her clothes off. Maybe both. Damn Jeanette. If I had to take part in a metaphysical orgy, why couldn’t it have been with someone I could stand? 

“So noted. Thanks, Buzz.” 

“Maybe it’s none of my business, but are you okay?” 

I laughed, and the sound was a touch hysterical. Buzz jerked in surprise.

“No, I’m not okay, but thank you for asking. I think you’re the first person to give a damn all day.” 

Maybe it was the shock of the evening. Maybe I was getting a little punchy. Or maybe I just didn’t give a shit after what I’d seen. I wrapped my arms around the muscled vampire and gave him a squeeze. 

Then I ducked into the throng of ever-shifting bodies, weaving my way through tables, dodging servers, drunk college students, and bachelorette party-goers. A brunette near the stage was staring raptly at a short, chiseled blonde demi-god dressed in leather armor, happily fellating a penis-shaped blow-pop. 

The performer was my werewolf neighbor Stephen Dietrich. A few months ago Jeanette had moved he and his brother Gregory into the apartment down the hall from mine on the proviso they monitor me and protect me if needed. When I’d last seen him, he’d been tossed into a steel pole and paralyzed from the waist down. Amazing what the therian virus could do for your constitution roll. He wasn’t as limber as he’d been, but Dr. Lillian said he’d be able to perform his usual set by the end of January.

The air in Iniquity was thicker, sweeter, always tinged with a hint of...I didn’t know. Lust? Fear? Anticipation? There was something about the place. A physical and psychic residue that wasn’t unpleasant per se, but still distracting. It fogged the mind. I was betting it also lowered inhibition. Was it an intentional use of vampire wiles, or a spell? 

I didn’t know, and I didn’t have time to figure it out. 

There were soft sounds coming from behind the door. The squirming feeling in my gut told me to walk away, to come back another time, or try to call again. I quashed it. 

_Nathaniel. She’s the only one who can make decisions for Nathaniel._

I rapped sharply on the door and the soft sounds came to an abrupt halt. 

“I need to talk to Jeanette.” 

There was no warning. The door swung open to reveal Jeanette’s office. It was a study in contrasts. Solid white walls on three sides of the room, with a checkerboard pattern on the fourth. The plush red carpet sank easily beneath a person’s feet. It was cozy. 

I didn’t have long to appreciate the view. Gretchen appeared in the gap, her pale face gone almost cadaverous with her rage. Her eyes glowed like twin fires in her face. She was still wearing the rose-gold dress, and it hung off her as she hovered just above me like some wraith in a children’s fairy tale. 

“What did I _just_ warn you about, Executioner?” she hissed. 

“Gretel!” Jeanette exclaimed.

I didn’t go for the Browning or even put a hand up to defend myself. I stared up at her, and I knew that I must look bored. After what I’d seen tonight, Gretchen’s tantrums just didn’t phase me. 

“One of Jeanette’s performers missed a set. Nathaniel Graison.” I didn’t make it a question, and it made Gretchen pause. Slowly, ever so slowly, she sank to the ground. All that youthful beauty returned, though the manic gleam in her eye hadn’t faded. 

Jeanette appeared in the gap, and I jerked in surprise. 

Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her nose was flushed a bright pink. A glance over her shoulder revealed a desk piled high with tissues. Her mascara had streaked so badly she’d need a squeegee to remove it all. She was blotchy, and her dress was rumpled. Her hair was down, and instead of its usual windswept disarray, it appeared as if a tornado had manhandled her. 

In short, she looked like hell. 

“I guess you heard?” 

I still had a lot to learn about Jeanette, it seemed. I hadn’t realized she was this close to her dancers. 

“Heard what?” she asked. “What has happened, ma petite?” 

Well, shit. I was about to make her night _worse_. 

“After we all parted ways, I joined a group looking for bodies near the river. Animators Inc. has been donating our time and services to the cause. We found him on the Riverfront trail, in half-man form. He’s alive, for now, but Dr. Lillian can’t force him to shift to one form or the other, so he’s not healing. Unless she can find a doctor willing to work with her in the next few days...” 

“He may die.” 

“Yes. He’s in a medically induced coma to manage the pain. I’m sorry, but you’re the only one who can make decisions for him right now.” 

She nodded, and half turned, taking one of Gretchen’s hands in hers. “I trust you can handle things here until Robert arrives?”

Gretchen looked like she wanted to argue, but forced a small, sad smile and nodded. “Yes, my love.” 

Jeanette leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the edge of her mouth. Gretchen’s eyes fluttered closed. Her lips trembled, and she laid her small, dainty hands on Jeanette’s waist reverently. 

“Thank you, ma jolie fille dorée,” Jeanette said. 

“I love you,” Gretchen whispered. 

Jeanette kissed her thoroughly, stealing her breath as I struggled not to watch. 

But she never said it back. 

***

“You need to break up with Gretchen.” 

Jeanette turned her head slightly to look at me. She’d been staring out the window, watching the snow spiral to earth. St. Louis was never truly dead, but three-thirty in the morning was as close to sleepy as the city got. What thoughts ran through a vampire’s head when she stared into the black frost-filled night? Did I even want to know?

“Do I? Are you jealous, ma petite? Are you perhaps wishing you’d taken my offer?” 

“Actually, I’m thinking that Gretchen deserves better than what you’re giving her.” 

That got her attention. She swiveled in the bucket seat to face me, her full lips turning down in a pout. She’d washed off any evidence of her breakdown, applied fresh makeup, tied her hair back, and straightened her dress. She was beauty incarnate. How, the look seemed to ask, could I imply such a thing?

A text alert dinged on my phone. At a light, I found a message from Cherry, informing me that Dr. Lillian had been contacted by a student and a veterinarian turned cryptozoologist-in-training. They were willing to give Nathaniel a workup. It was a start, at least. They’d be arriving soon, and they’d want to talk to Jeanette about options before dawn.

“And how have you come to that conclusion?”

“She adores you, Jeanette. She’s letting you sleep with God knows how many people. She went into battle for you, knowing she’d probably die. I can tell just by looking at her that there’s nothing she won’t do, give, or be if you ask. She’s giving it her all. And you’re...you’re giving her table scraps. It’s not fair.” 

Jeanette leaned against the headrest, and her thick lashes settled like a fringe of lace against her sculpted cheekbones as they shut. 

“I know.” 

“You know? You know that makes it worse, right?” 

“Things between Gretel and I have always been fraught, and I’m not sure how to change it.” 

“Try couples’ therapy. It works wonders for us regular folks.” 

Jeanette snorted. “Ah, yes. That will go over well. She’s already mortified that the tale has been embellished and published for the masses. She’ll never tell the tale in truth and in full to a counselor, I promise you.” 

“Published?” 

“Yes, published. Have you ever wondered why vampire fiction existed in your mainstream, even before Roosevelt allowed us to mingle? Why we never put a stop to it? Why we never bespelled or killed humans who wanted to write and publish the tripe?” 

“Too many people doing it, I suppose. You can’t stop everyone.” 

“Non. We stopped many. Until Roosevelt allowed us to roam freely, most vampire fiction was placed into the minds of human authors by the Dragon, ghostwritten by her human servant, or both. Sometimes it was a collaborative effort.” 

When her eyes fluttered open again, they fixed on something I couldn’t see. Her voice was distant and a little sad. 

“She’s a malcontent, always voting against the others, causing trouble. She loathes them, and Belle in particular. I shouldn’t have been surprised she’d ferret out the tale and immortalize it on the page. My poor Gretel. She hates it so.” 

She sucked in another deep breath. 

“Gretel was born in 1851, the only daughter of a wealthy widower who’d settled in Styria. It was a beautiful place, but very remote. She had no siblings, and her father’s health was poor. Her only companions were those hired to care for her. It would have been enough to make any child despondent, but when she entered her teens, Gretel began showing signs of...madness. At least, that’s what they would have called it then. Periods of fervor, where she’d lock herself away to paint, sew, or write. Whatever had struck her fancy that season. She was very talented. Very bright. But her moods would always shift back into despondency.” 

“Manic-depression. She had bipolar disorder.” 

“Oui. Quite severe, and untreated until very recently.” 

“So what happened?” 

Jeanette shrugged. “What happened so often in those days. Belle set her sights on the family fortune. She’d have seduced the Earl herself if she’d thought his heart could take it, but alas, the girl was the only avenue.” 

“And, what? Belle wasn’t into blondes?” 

Jeanette laughed bitterly. “Non, ma petite. You’ll find there are very few appetites in which Belle has not indulged. At the time, she was not aware of Gretel’s proclivities. She believed that she would respond to a male lover. She sent Requiem to seduce her. It offended him when she did not respond to his careful flattery and pretty words. I feared what he might do and offered to charm her myself. I knew the girl needed more than I could give her, even then. I was not ready for love. But surely it was better than rape, I reasoned. I could offer her friendship, show her passion. I did not think she could love me and could not imagine things would go so awry.” 

By the time she’d finished, I was staring open-mouthed at her profile. The story finally clicked. 

“Oh, my God. You’re _Carmilla_.”

“You see why counseling would be pointless, oui? A relationship built on lies cannot stand. I don’t know how to make her see that. I don’t know how to convince her that our lovemaking in October was just...” 

“A way to work through your grief after the funerals? Let me finger-bang away the pain?”

“You do have a way with words, ma petite.” 

“You said she was getting help. How does that even work? Can vampires take medication?” 

“Oui, but it’s not an exact science. You must find someone with your exact diagnosis and essentially form a buddy system. Both vampire and human attend the same appointments. The human takes the medication in the morning, and in the evening, the vampire absorbs that medication through feeding. It’s laborious, but it can work. She has improved. It is only your presence that vexes her.” 

I pulled into the clinic parking lot, and we sat in silence for a moment.

“You don't have to stay in a relationship to make another person better. Only she make the changes that are best for her life. You did some awful shit when you were with Belle, but that doesn’t mean you have to compound it now. Tell her the truth. Let her find someone who can give her what she needs because you sure as hell can’t give it to her.”

Jeanette said nothing as we trooped into the building. She fell into step behind me as I made my way back to the small, static-filled waiting room and poured myself another cup of steaming water, stirring in spoonfuls of the instant coffee before taking a seat by Jeanette. 

Her foot bounced, heel clacking noisily against the tile as she thought through whatever troubled her. I placed a hand on her thigh, stilling the movement. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist? What were you crying about earlier?”

“It is nothing.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“It is…something to do with Asher. He usurped a nearby territory, and the Master, a friend named Lissette, is dead. There is nothing to be done at the moment.” 

I wanted to hug her, but with the Browning on, I settled for squeezing her thigh. She managed a weak smile and slid her fingers into mine.

And that was how they found us, as the door swung open. 

They were both tall and wearing matching protective equipment. As they stripped off layers, I could see their faces more clearly, and my mouth popped open. 

He was built like a farmhand, tall and broad-shouldered, with a big barrel chest. He was going a little soft in the middle, and his hairline was receding, but you couldn’t see much gray in among the blonde. His hands were calloused from years of work, he’d extended one toward us, all genial smiles, but it slipped from his face when his eyes locked with mine. 

My eyes bounced from his face to _hers_. 

She cocked a hip and stared back, as incredulous as I was.

“ _Andria_?” I croaked. “ _Dad_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where I'll leave you for a while. I have a lot of projects to catch up on for work, and I am evil. XD This is actually a big jumping-off point, so I'm going to gear up for the next part. So I'm hoping you'll all be patient with me until we get there.


	9. Chapter 9

“Anita?” 

Dad blinked a few times, as though he thought I’d disappear the next time his eyes opened. A cautious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and when I didn’t immediately do something caustic, he actually grinned. 

“Hey, look at you! I didn’t know you were volunteering at a therian clinic these days! Look at my katydid, putting that preternatural biology degree to use.” 

“Dad...” 

“Katydid?” Jeanette echoed with a trace of amusement. 

“I was a tomboy,” I muttered. “I caught them in the backyard and brought them to Mom and Dad. “My middle name is Katherine. It’s cute. Don’t tease me.”

Only then did I notice Andria leaning over dad’s shoulder, gazing at Jeanette in starry-eyed wonder. Any petty irritation she might have felt at seeing me was gone, washed away by what had to be one of her biggest celebrity obsessions for years. I knew she’d begged for Jeanette’s beauty products for Christmas every year and conned boyfriends into buying them when she didn’t get what she wanted. 

She owned every season of _Suckers_ , and could probably rattle off Jeanette’s IMDb page like most religious kids recited their Bible verses. Last I’d seen, she had a poster of Jeanette in her room at home. She was _definitely_ a fan. 

My stomach clenched with a sick sort of satisfaction when her expression twisted. Shock and a touch of envy played out on her face when she spotted my hand resting casually on Jeanette’s thigh. I knew what she thought, knew I’d have to reveal my lie of omission at some point, but at that moment? It felt phenomenal to watch my statuesque blonde step-sister struggle with the realization that just this once I had something she wanted. Maybe she wasn’t dying to crawl into bed with Jeanette, but she’d kill to have a conversation with her idol. It was clear I’d gotten a lot more than an autograph.

Was it petty? Hell yes. But _so_ satisfying.

It was a struggle not to smirk as I gave Jeanette’s thigh one last squeeze. Just to be a good, reassuring friend, of course. 

“I’m not a volunteer, Dad. At least, not at the clinic. Bert’s been donating some animators from Animators Inc. to the cause, and we’ve been sweeping the river for bodies. I literally tripped over Nathaniel. My clothes were ruined, so a nurse loaned me a pair of scrubs.” 

Dad blushed. He and I shared the same pale skin, inheriting our almost porcelain coloring from our Germanic great-grandfather. When we blushed, it was a rich cranberry color. Blotchy and embarrassing as hell. 

In almost every other respect, I looked like a carbon copy of my mom. Short, with dark, almond-shaped eyes, and curly black hair that was unmanageable on the best days, and unbearable in the heat of a Missouri summer. I could only imagine how bad it had been when she’d been a little girl living in Oaxaca with Grandma and Grandpa Flores.

“Um, sorry. I haven’t eaten since we left Stillwater, honey, and you know I just love the taste of foot in my mouth.” 

I laughed weakly. “It’s fine, Dad, really.” 

His eyes shifted to Jeanette, and he regained his composure, extending the hand toward her instead. 

“I suppose you must be Mr. Graison’s power of attorney then. I’m Dr. Leon Blake, and I see you’ve already met my daughter, Anita. This is her sister, Andria.” 

_Step-sister_ , I wanted to snap. Just because he’d married Judith and moved them both into our house didn’t mean I had to claim them as family. 

Jeanette’s smile was careful, designed not to flash her fangs. I had a leg up when dealing with the undead, but an experienced hunter could judge a vampire’s age based on that tell alone. The newer the undead, the less cautious they tended to be. It made sense if you came of age, so to speak, when being a vampire in the first degree was enough to have a stake hammered through your heart, a bulb of garlic stuffed into your mouth, and your ashes scattered at a crossroads. 

It was pretty demeaning if you asked me. Only one step was technically necessary. 

She took my father’s proffered hand and gave it a brief but firm shake. “A pleasure to meet you, Leon. Anita has told me so much about you.” 

I hadn’t, but my father didn’t call her on the blatant lie. I was mostly immune to Jeanette’s abilities now, but even I could sense the charm oozing off her. She wasn’t peering at him through her incredibly long lashes, so she hadn’t captured him with her gaze. Even so, just her voice was enough to make my father rock back on his heels, slack-jawed and eyes unfocused. 

A glance at Andria showed that she looked equally gobsmacked. If anything, she looked more jealous than she had before. She looked from Jeanette’s position in the chair next to mine, then back to me, as if wondering how she could squirm into my position with no one being the wiser.

I’d never felt more vindicated in my life. This shining moment in all its seething, petty glory almost made up for all the shit Jeanette had put me through. But...I couldn’t let her get away with it forever. 

_“Don’t whammy my family, Jeanette. I’m fond of my dad, and they’re here to help.”_

_“Ah, you ruin all my fun, ma petite, but, alas, you are correct. I must become better acquainted with your family at a later date, non? Your father is quite… handsome.”_

_“Gack.”_

Her chuckle rolled through my head, tickling the inside of my skull like the brush of silk before fading away.

“That’s...um...that’s real nice, ma’am,” my father managed, at last, blush returning with a vengeance, not seeming to notice her momentary preoccupation.

“For now, perhaps we should focus on treatment for Mr. Graison, oui?” Jeanette prompted gently. 

“Right,” my father said, glomming onto the suggestion with a sigh of relief.

I almost felt sorry for him. I remembered being on the other side of this equation, how damn distracting she could be, even with animating ability to lean back on. To his credit, he was taking painstaking care not to look away from Jeanette’s face as he spoke. My dad may have been many things, but a cheat wasn’t one of them. I only caught him glancing at the bodice of her dress once. And, as a college friend and fellow preternatural biology major Mike Bauer told me, your eyes just went there first. Boobdar. You knew where every pair in the room were, even if you were making no plans to leave the woman you were with. 

And I had to believe he was doing something right. He, my college roommate Susan, and their boyfriend and girlfriend had all been in a happy closed poly relationship for four years now, and they were all planning to make it legal. Mike would marry Susan, while Carrie married Jordan. Don’t ask me how they navigated that emotional minefield. I was only dating one person, and yet, after only two months, I felt like one wrong step was going to leave me dragging the pulped remains of my heart away from the battlefield after everything went kaboom. 

“Anita, why don’t you take Andria out to the vending machines while I take a medical history from Miss...?” 

“Davenay,” Andria blurted. “Jeanette Davenay. She was a model for Belle Morte’s line, a rom-com lead, a reality TV star, and I hear she’s Master of the City now. She’s-" 

Jeanette swiveled in her chair so she could face Andria. She shrank in on herself, shoulders bowing under the weight of Jeanette’s stare. 

“I’m sorry to be abrupt, but there isn’t much time, Andria. I’d like to tell your father what I can in what time Nathaniel has left. I don’t have a complete history, of course. He was a ward of the state as a child and a runaway after that. I’ll offer what I know from his brief stint as an employee and a member of our community. As this is sensitive in nature, I believe only trained medical professionals should have the details of his medical history. Your father will share whatever is relevant should you need to know. Would you mind accompanying ma petite out of the room?” 

Andria didn’t argue. She turned on her heel and strode out of the room, shoulders still hunched. I followed and couldn’t even enjoy a nice helping of schadenfreude. She just looked like a kicked puppy. 

“She’s not angry with you, Andria,” I said, falling into step behind her. The vending machines were in the lobby, near the first set of double doors. 

“Sure.” 

“She’s not. I promise. Normally she’s such a smooth operator she should have a Sade song playing in the background everywhere she goes. Tonight has been...a lot. She and her girlfriend had a fight, and now one of her dancers has been attacked. I doubt she wants to sign an autograph at the moment.” 

We reached the lobby and Andria fed quarters into first a soda machine and then a vending machine, pressing each coin into the slot like she was trying to go for someone’s eyes. 

“So, what did you do to piss her off?” 

“What?” 

“You said you two had a fight. What was it about? Maybe it’s not my business. I’m just glad you came out. We were all beginning to think you were so far in the closet you were having teatime with Aslan. Grandma Blake said you were dating someone again, but I didn’t know it was _Jeanette freaking Davenay_ , Anita. Damn. Go big or go home, I guess.” 

“I’m not a lesbian, Andria.” 

She leaned against the vending machines and tore open a bag of Funyuns. The smell of artificial onions made my stomach roll. I hadn’t eaten in hours, but I wasn’t sure I could force anything down at the moment. She crunched into a ring and washed it down with a swig of Diet Coke.

“Fine, bi. I don’t judge. I know you loved Curtis. It doesn’t make what you have with her less valid.”

“I’m not dating Jeanette. I’m dating a man and his name is Richard. I’m not a lesbian, and I’m not bisexual. Why the hell does everyone think that? Liking “guy” stuff or working in a “male” field does not make me butch! This gender binary stuff is bullshit. That does not make me bi."

“I agree. Liking girls makes you bi, and I think you have to at least be curious, Anita. I lived with you for years and read your diary.” 

“You what?” 

“God, that shit was entertaining. You could have made a killing selling those emo poems to a pop-punk band.” 

“If you don’t get to the point in the next three seconds, I’m going to shove one of those Funyuns up your nose.”

“You wrote in your diary every day for months. I’m not sure if you remember it. You were pretty fuzzy the first summer after you got on anti-depressants. You said you had your first kiss with a boy named Lamar. Never met the guy at school, so I had no clue who you were talking about there.” 

Lamar was actually a nixe who lived in the Stillwater reservoir and tried to drown me more than once. He’d also been my only friend when I was twelve, which had been a sad state of affairs, so I hadn’t told anyone but my (allegedly padlocked and well-hidden) diary about the indiscretion. 

“But in the ninth grade, Hannah Baxter kissed you on a dare. And...you didn’t seem to mind according to your diary. Seems interesting, to me at least. Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re straight. Or maybe you’re just a little... _bendy_.“ 

She tucked the Funyuns into her coat pocket and waltzed toward the door, her shapely hips swaying. Even dressed in blue jeans and a heavy winter jacket, she looked great. Damn her. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To the hotel Dad booked. If I’m not needed here, I’m going to get a few hours of sleep. You should take him out to eat when he’s through. He was going to call you, even before we knew you were here. This is about the time you turn in, and he thought we could catch you for breakfast. Take him someplace nice, okay? I think this is really gonna suck for him.” 

I scowled at her retreating back. She was right. I owed my Dad a good meal before he lost his appetite for good. Fortunately, the nightlife in St. Louis was to die for, and I knew a place that made a mean hamburger. 

“Next stop, Dead Dave’s,” I muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so apparently I lied about waiting. XD I've been stalling out on professional writing a little bit. I've been working since Dec. 2016, so I think that's what, officially four years of ghostwriting, unless my math is off. I'm a little burnt out. So I've been rewarding myself with a hundred or two hundred words of fanfic per five hundred word sprints of actual writing and I got a chapter done. So this was the chapter. :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Brief flashbacks with depictions of rape.

“Bit of a liquor snob, isn’t he?” Dad asked, eyeing the window. 

Dead Dave’s exterior was made of darkly stained walnut, its windows deeply inset and decorated with beer signs. They shone through the deeply tinted pane like an array of psychedelic fish swimming on midnight water. There were all the usual suspects, of course. Bud Light, Coors Light, Budweiser, Heineken. 

Even as a lifelong teetotaler, I’d been able to absorb those names through cultural osmosis, and by dragging Andria home falling down drunk from one too many parties when she’d been a sophomore. It seemed to have shocked her into sobriety when a high school quarterback failed to assault me under the bleachers during my senior year. I hadn't gotten many late-night calls for rescue after that. Or maybe one of her friends had finally gotten a driver’s license. Dealer’s choice, really. 

I didn’t know the foreign liquor brands Dave had on tap, but I had a feeling I knew who’d given him the hook-up. Looked like Jeanette had become a silent partner in yet another business. Did that make the total five or six now? 

“Yeah, I guess,” I said, pushing the door open with a shrug. 

I didn’t bother shrugging off my coat. Dead Dave’s interior was frigid, almost as miserable as the air outside, made only more tolerable by the lack of wind chill. Dave, being dead, no longer had to contend with something as plebeian as frostbite, and kept the temperature a nice fifty-five in the hours after last call, but before sunrise. He was still technically open, just not serving liquor. In a truly Scrooge-like show of generosity, he’d turn it up to seventy before handing the reins over to Luther at dawn. 

The cold drew a shocked wheeze from my dad, his breath coalescing into a wisp of white in front of his face as he spoke. 

“Tarnation, kid. You sure the burger is worth it? A Denny’s would be warmer.” 

I grinned. “It’s worth it, trust me.” 

The scent of nicotine clung stubbornly to the walls and hardwood floors even though the last Pall-Mall had been stubbed out in an ashtray years before. No cigarette smoke these days, thank God. The deadliest thing in the bar now was Dead Dave himself, not the threat of cancer that hung heavy in the air. I guessed that either Dave or Luther missed the aesthetic though because they exclusively burned candles called ‘Bonfire Night’ inside the bar. Candle flames burned like little Will-o’-the-wisps in the darkness, each indicating an occupied booth. Six. Huh. Dave must be having a busy morning.

Navigating the dim bar was an art I’d been forced to perfect over the years. As far as most people were concerned, Dead Dave was just your friendly neighborhood vampire-man doing whatever a bartender can. Most people didn’t care to look past the salty rim of their margarita glass and see another person, much less ask their story. 

Until Addison v. Clark had declared otherwise, the law claimed cop David J. Calhoun passed ten years ago. He’d allegedly died in the line of duty after a vampire dragged from their squad during a routine patrol. Dave’s partner Rodney was found lying dead in a ditch a mile up the road while Dave’s body had never been recovered. Until Addison v. Clark, that’d been the end of his story. Just another cautionary tale. Don’t go out after dark and always wear your crosses, kids, or the vampires will get you. 

But, of course, there were always two sides to every story. The attack hadn’t caught Dave off guard. He’d orchestrated the whole damn thing to take out the dirty cop in his unit. If he had to be killed to accomplish that, so be it. I thought the ethics were shaky, at best, but taking my recent history into account, I couldn’t throw stones without bringing the house down on us both.

Dave hadn’t expected to come back from the kamikaze plan and start life all over again. So what was an ex-cop turned vampire to do? 

Narc on them whenever he could, of course. He’d been cautious under Nikolaos’ regime, but with Jeanette in power, the few times I’d visited, Luther practically sang like a songbird. Anything I wanted, anytime I wanted. I could probably have asked what exactly he and Luther were seeing each other, but decided not to be nosy. It wasn’t my business. If Luther and Dave wanted to tell me, they’d tell me. God knew I hated it when people read into every word and gesture I shared with a woman, especially Jeanette. Best not to be a hypocrite.

My father wasn’t as adept at navigating the tables as I was and caught several to the gut, even with my hand to steer him through the worst of the minefield. He was shooting me dirty looks by the time we slid onto the black leather barstools. 

Dave turned to us, a fluffy white towel slung over one broad shoulder. He was caught forever at his peak, a strapping twenty-nine-year-old who’d never had the time to go to seed. His biceps and firm pectorals strained the black company t-shirt on it. The logo was simple. Just a red cocktail glass and the bar name. 

“That’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” I asked, waving at his chest. “You might as well be wearing a nametag. ‘Hi, everybody, this is my first meeting. My name’s Dave and I’m a vampire.’” 

“Hi, Dave,” my dad droned dutifully.

I grinned at my dad and, almost as if he couldn’t help it, Dave flashed my father a toothy smile as well. 

“Alright, wise-acre, what’s your name?” 

“Dr. Leon Blake, but Leo if you’re nasty.” 

Dave blinked and glanced at me. “This is your dad?” 

“What, did you think I sprung fully formed from my mother’s womb, armed and ready to snark?” 

“Will you stake me if I say yes?” 

Dad hid a laugh behind a hand and consulted one of the laminated menus on the glossy bar top while Dave reached for a highball glass. 

“The usual?” 

My usual was eight ounces of orange juice that Dave or Luther would pass off as a screwdriver or a mimosa. Hard to handwave me as a regular when I didn’t have a favorite drink. 

“A Shirley Temple, please,” I said. “We were mucking the River for bodies tonight and the sights were... worse than usual.”

I waited for a smirk or smartass remark. You could take the vampire out of the precinct, but you’d never really take the cop out of the vampire. Like it or not, it was a boy’s club, and you played tough or you got shit for it. Dave had ten years to soften up a bit, and I wouldn’t have an official badge until the New Year, but the sentiment was the same. 

But to my surprise, the mockery didn’t come. He must have read something in my face or wasn’t willing to drag me through the mud in front of my family, because he just nodded and half-turned to face my father. “You want the same, or something stronger? It’s technically after last call, but since you’re with the Executioner, I could make an exception.”

“I’ll take a Coke,” Dad said, and he didn’t bother to hide a frown. His feelings about my secondary occupation weren’t exactly a State Secret.

“Coming right up,” Dave said, reaching for the grenadine syrup first. Then, casual as you please, he added, “Oh, and Anita, I think you left your watch last time you visited. I have it in the back if you want to check the lost and found.” 

I bit the inside of my cheek to contain a groan. God, I _so_ didn’t need this. 

Snitching on the Master of the City and her lackeys was a dangerous job, and I’d compensated Dave and Luther with bribes and the promise of safety. Dave did it for the sheer satisfaction of it, which was probably why he still informed on the vampires, even when Jeanette was cooperating free of charge. Under Nikolaos’ regime, Dave, Luther, and I had devised a code when the information was too sensitive to share at the bar. Dave or Luther would inform me I’d lost something, and they’d taken it into the back for safekeeping. To regulars at the bar, I must have looked like the most forgetful vampire hunter in history.

A lost wallet meant someone was asking probing questions about me and was probably trying to track me down. A lost jacket was information about a person of interest. A lost phone was a person willing to inform long-term, but only under the right conditions and only to me. A watch was for time-sensitive information. Which meant whatever Dave needed to talk to me about was really important. If I hadn’t turned up of my own volition, he’d have called me up at the ass-end of morning. Great. Just peachy. 

I slid off the barstool and forced a smile. “I’ll take a look. Do you mind setting Dad up with a booth in the meantime? We’d like the house special, well-done, with a side of seasoned fries, and... Do you still like relish on your burger, Dad?” 

“Yeah.” 

“A burger with all the fixings on both.” 

I didn’t feel like eating, but I’d choke down the meal. Apparently, as Master of the City, any vampires blood-oathed to Jeanette relied on her to rise for the day. I’d forgone supper with Richard, anticipating bloated corpses, and couldn’t afford to sap Jeanette’s energy reserves while she slept. If she went down, so did most of the St. Louis Kiss. Would skipping a meal doom Jeanette? Probably not. But as she’d pointed out, I had a habit of not eating when stressed, and the bond allowed me to get away with it. One day, it’d bite me in the ass. 

Dave ducked into the kitchen and relayed the order to the long-suffering cook and sleepy-eyed waitress before leading me into the back. The second the break room door clicked shut behind us, I rounded on Dave.

“This had better be good.” 

Dave raised his hands to shield his face, taking a cautious step back. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Blake. I’m just the go-between. If Griswold thought he could get away with calling or coming to you directly, he would, but his hands are tied. He can’t call about this at work and there are ears on him at all times otherwise. He’s lucky he could contact me at all. Between Marcus and Richard-“

“Richard?” I repeated, and it was an effort not to shout. Even with his average human hearing, Dad wouldn’t miss that. “What about Richard?” 

“Damn it, Anita, let me finish before you go postal, will you? There’s a meeting coming up in a few days, okay? There’s something going on with the therians in town. Something big, and they don’t want the police to know about it. There was a vote to include you, and some of the big names said yes. Rafael, Narcissa, and a few others, but Marcus and the others have numbers on their side. They said no. Irving is one of Richard’s people, but Richard is with Marcus on this one. He doesn’t want you near the enclave, just in case. Gabriel’s made it known what he wants to do to you.” 

My stomach rolled, and I thought I might throw up on Dave’s shoes. All night I’d managed to stave off the urge, but the name brought on a wave of nausea so fierce it was a struggle to stay upright. I braced my hands on the wall, squeezing my eyes shut to ward off the images that came with the name. 

For months Jeanette had been forced to barter her body to ensure Raina and Gabriel’s cooperation in her new city-wide order. If I’d been by her side from the start, fortifying her position, backing her plays, maybe he wouldn’t have been another in a long line of men to rape her. Her control was usually better than this, but tonight her feelings were raw, the barriers between us thinner. The name brought the echoes of her nightmares to the fore. 

_Hands in my hair, tearing at the roots, nails raking furrows into my flesh until my back is a bloody ruin. Teeth unerringly finding my throat, the swells of my breasts. The hideous ache when he withdraws that is almost worse than when he’s inside. Almost._

And I knew those nightmares were tame compared to some things I’d heard. She’d prostituted herself for the sake of her people because I hadn’t stepped up. My fault. God-fucking-damnit.

Dave laid a hand on my shoulder and I instantly recoiled, my back hitting the wall before I could think. I reached into the collar of the scrubs, spilling the crucifix into the open air, letting it hang between us. I wasn’t willing to go for my gun, but it was the best defense I had. Dave wasn’t using vampire wiles, so it didn’t burst into white light, even so, his eyes went round before dropping to the floor. 

“Jesus, Anita, what’s gotten into you?” 

“I...” I blew out a shaking breath. “It’s been a lousy night, Dave.” 

“I can see that. You know, I didn’t believe all that Human Servant crap until now. Thought it had to be a PR stunt for her and your way of getting information for RPIT, like an undercover cop or summat. But this is real, isn’t it? You’re really with her.” 

“Yeah. It’s real.” 

He shook his head. “You know, I never figured you for one to go in for that sort of thing, Blake.” 

“You paid a Kiss of vampires to off your partner. You have _no_ right to judge me, Dave.” 

“I’m not judging, just making an observation. I thought you hated vampires.” 

“I don’t hate vampires.” 

He coughed something that sounded suspiciously like “bullshit” into his fist. 

“Okay, I don’t hate _all_ of them. You’re decent. I’m getting better about it, alright? But to answer your question, the first two marks weren’t my idea. RPIT investigated the District Serial case, and just before I went to see Nikolaos, one of the Master vampires, Aubrey, threw me through a glass door and the momentum carried me through a wall. No one took me to the emergency room, stabilized my neck, or even checked my vitals before they toted me off to the daytime resting place of the St. Louis Kiss. Jeanette was pretty sure I had a subdural hematoma, so she did the only thing she could.” 

“She marked you.”

“And when she was targeted by a sniper in October, I did the only thing I could think of. I initiated the third mark. I wasn’t even sure it would work. Every psychic I’ve consulted said it wouldn’t for any other Human servant, but I’m an animator, so maybe the connection is special.” 

Dave laughed. “Oh, you’re something special alright. Put the cross away, will you? I just wanted to say be careful and give you this.” 

He slapped something into my palm. It was one of the cheap digital watches you found in department stores for less than twenty dollars. I put it on mechanically, checking the time on the readout. It’d be five soon. Christ. No wonder I was so tired. I was usually in bed by now.

“Debbie says your burgers are ready. Eat and go home, Antia, you look exhausted.” 

That sounded like an excellent plan. I tucked the crucifix into the neck of the scrub top.

“Sorry. Thanks for the heads up, Dave. I owe you one.” 

“Good luck, Anita.” 

“I have a feeling I’ll need it.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Alright, I’ll admit defeat. The burger was worth the cold,” Dad said, wiping relish from the corner of his mouth with a grin. “Though I think you conned me into coming to check for your watch.” 

“You caught me.” 

I’d been fiddling with the watch throughout dinner, unused to its weight. Dave’s portions were huge, which gave me an excuse not to talk much. After the night I’d had, every bite tasted like cardboard, and I had to wash every mouthful down with something sweet to stomach it at all. At least the Shirley Temple tasted good. Turns out, Dave made them with twice the usual amount of grenadine. He brought four to our table before the meal was through.

Dad kept up light, half-hearted conversation, and I made the appropriate responses when prompted, but my heart wasn’t really in it. I kept replaying the conversation with Dave over and over in my head. A meeting was going to take place in the next few days, and Richard was using the threat of force to keep his people from telling me about it. 

The other leaders I understood. Gabriel, and to be frank, Raina, who truly ran the werewolves, were using their leverage against the others to keep them in line. Rafael and Narcissa didn’t owe me anything, and at the end of the day, they had to look out for their own first. I understood that. But Richard? Where the hell did Richard get off keeping something like this from me? They weren’t talking about fiscal policy or intergroup boundaries. This shit was my job.

Or it used to be my job. I’d been removed from RPIT, so I didn’t owe Zerbrowski shit now. But I owed it to the people of St. Louis, to humanity, and to my conscience, to find out what Gabriel and Raina wanted to keep from the police. 

“Anita?” 

I jumped and almost upended the plastic tumbler by my plate. My dad caught it gently and set it upright. His eyes were soft, face full of concern. 

“Anita, are you okay?” 

“No.” 

“Yeah, I suppose that’s fair, after what you’ve seen tonight. I’ve only gotten a brief look at Mr. Graison, but what I saw was...” He trailed off with a shudder. “It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever seen in all my years of medicine. Your sister and I will come back after I’ve gotten a few hours of sleep. I wish she didn’t have to see this.” 

“Why did you bring her?” I didn’t mean the question to sound sharp, but that’s how it came out. 

Dad’s mouth pressed into a line in that way he always got when Andria and I fought. It usually appeared when we’d snipe in the car, the one family occasion I couldn’t escape. I’d avoided family dinners by hunching in the Stillwater graveyard, waded in the shallows of the reservoir, or played at the edge of the woods. I’d loitered in my room or the attic when the weather was bad. Andria would lay into me, and I’d respond in kind, and Dad’s fingers would flex around the wheel, lips thinning into a line like it was taking all his hard-won patience not to shout at us both.

“Dr. Lillian said she’d take any help she could get. I’m not sure how much help your sister and I will be, but we’re willing to give it a go. That’s more than a lot of people in our position can say. I’d say that two sets of hands, two pairs of eyes, and two different takes on the problem might get us closer to a solution. And whether I like it or not, your sister is more current than I am.“

“But you’re both veterinarians. She’s not even fully certified!”

“I’ve been back at school for cryptozoology for sixteen months,” Dad whispered. “You remember your Grandma’s farmhand Verne?” 

“I remember him.” 

“He brought in a man from another pack who’d been trapped in half-man form. Andrew Stone. Apparently, the last Alpha he’d served under trapped him in beast form so long he couldn’t completely come back, which meant he was always contagious, even when mostly humanoid. When he got struck by a car, the hospital in Benton wouldn’t treat him. They brought him to me, and though I was willing, I didn’t know _how_ to treat him. He died on my table, Anita. Not a damn thing I could do about it. So I decided to fix that.” 

The pain of the admission was so raw on his face that it stole my breath. His eyes were wet, his face flushed red. He’d been living with this for almost a year and a half, and he’d never told me until now. He dabbed at his eyes with his napkin and it left a flake of pickle relish at the crease of one eye. I wanted to brush it away and break the tension but knew that it would be a mistake. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“You never call or write, Anita. We’re lucky to see you at Christmas and Thanksgiving most years. Any news we get about you comes from my mother, and you don’t really ask about us. The only person you seem to have any positive interaction with is your brother, and it’s only because you seem to enjoy encouraging his inappropriate behavior.” 

“I’m busy-" 

“You could make time. If it’s important enough, you show up, Anita. You make time to call my mother for an hour every week. You send an email or a gift to Josh once a month and according to my mother, you have friends in St. Louis outside of work. I’m not asking for much, Anita. Just a monthly phone call. At least call to let me know you’re safe. You don’t know how worried your mother and I were when the Governor imposed the city-wide lockdown in St. Louis. We didn’t know if you’d been injured or killed, and you never called to let us know if you were okay.” 

My fingers curled around the plastic tumbler that once held my Shirley Temple. If it had been glass, it would have shattered, spraying the table with sharp-edged shrapnel. I _hated_ it when he did that. He should know better by now. 

“Don’t call her that.” 

“What?” 

“Judith. Don’t call her my mother. She’s not _my_ mother.” 

Dad sucked in a sharp breath, and his eyes were suddenly wet again. I wanted to scream at him. Don’t cry. Don’t you _dare_ cry. This was _my_ grief. He was the one who’d brought Judith in, who’d made our lives harder by stuffing them into the hole her absence left. Jamming the square peg into the round hole didn’t fill it, it just bent the edges and made things hurt more. 

“Oh, Anita. I’m sorry. That was careless. I didn’t mean...” 

“Yes, you did. You’ve been trying to replace her for years. She wasn’t even two weeks in the ground before you shipped me off to Grandma Blake’s and started your life without me. I was _eight_ , dad. I lived with her for years. And you know what? I was actually happy there. She’s a kick-ass grandma, and she was a kick-ass mom to you and Aunt Mattie. I’d rather have stayed there.” 

Dad looked like he might have said something, but I cut him off with a glare. 

“But no, you decided you wanted to be a father again. I come home to the house that used to be my mother’s to find you’re ready to marry a woman I’ve never met, who’s pregnant with your baby, my half-brother, and that I’m about to have a step-sister. She wants to play house and have me call her mom. Meanwhile, I feel like the mismatched couch that you moved and felt obligated to keep because you inherited it from a relative.” 

My voice finally broke, and hot, stinging tears poured down my cheeks. I swiped at them, but they just kept coming. In the brief moments I could see, I got one very good look at the look on Dad’s face, and it only made me cry harder. 

“Is that really what you think?” 

“That’s what happened! You couldn’t handle it when she died, and you left me because I look just like her. You went out, and you found the furthest thing from mom you could find! Judith! She’s blonde, uneducated, and afraid of her own shadow. How could you go from mom to that? She’s a nag, and she made you give up most of what you liked before you married her. I don’t drink, but I know you and mom liked to drink _Tres Agaves Anejo_ in the evenings. You’d dance and go to parties. She never takes you out. Why _her_? Did you marry her because you knocked her up? You know it’s not the 1950s right?” 

“Anita Katherine Blake, that is _enough_!“ 

My father’s fist hit the table so hard the plates rattled. Every eye in the bar was on us now. My face burned, my eyes still stung, and my stomach churned. I was so _not_ done. I had a million things to say, but my father wasn’t through. He leaned in close and lowered his voice. 

“Judith’s business is her own, Anita, and she can share it if she wants to. And as for the rest? I saw something in Judith and I saw something in your mother. Did I find them both beautiful? Yes. But the outsides don’t matter sweetheart. Blonde, brunette, red hair, white hair, gray hair, one of them newfangled purple colors too. Black, White, Hispanic, Asian, Filipino. It don’t matter a lick, honey. It’s a person’s soul that matters to me. I loved them both. Loving Judith doesn’t mean I didn’t love your mother or that I don’t love you. But that being said, it doesn’t mean that I will tolerate that kind of talk. She may not be your mother, but she is my wife, and you will treat her with respect, if for no other reason than she is a human being who has done you no greater insult than not being Julieta.”

I pushed up from the table, fresh tears spilling over. I was at an all-time low and couldn’t make a stop at dysfunction junction to discuss this right now. Maybe tomorrow I’d pawn a raising off onto John and free up space to talk with Dad during office hours, but this couldn’t happen now. I’d say something I’d regret. 

“I’m going home,” I muttered. “Call the office. We’ll talk tomorrow.” 

“Honey, you’re my ride to the hotel.” 

“Call an Uber! I can’t do this right now.” 

I didn’t wait for a response. I jogged for the exit, banging into tables and chairs on my way, and emerged bruised, panting, bleary-eyed, and exhausted. The sky was charcoal black, trending toward slate gray. Dawn was almost an hour away. If I’d been staring at my Jeep, rather than the sky, maybe I’d have noticed the cargo van parked nearby before a shape came hurtling in from my right. But too little, too late. 

In my periphery, it was a streaky white blur, like a light you passed on the highway. There and gone, just a spot dancing in your vision. One moment I was steps away from the Jeep, and the next, my back was pressed in a painful line against the van, cold metal searing through the jacket and scrubs. I gasped, tried to go for the Browning, but was only slammed painfully against the side of the van for my trouble. Hands closed around my biceps with sure, steely strength. A man’s weight pinned the rest of my body.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Ms. Blake. One yank and I can dislocate your shoulder. Too hard a tug and I could remove an arm. I hear you only need one to animate.” 

The voice was smooth and vaguely familiar, but through the haze of pain and exhaustion, it took me a minute to place it. I had to squint through the glare of a streetlight, a fresh round of powdery snow, and the leftover tears. 

He was still wearing his white suit and hat. Against the snow and the white van, he was easy to miss. His face was pale, angular, and objectively handsome, even twisted with cruelty. This close, I could see something else, too. Something that shocked the hell out of me. What I’d thought was coiffed hair was actually a mass of small, downy feathers. 

“Gunderson.” 

“Very good, Ms. Blake. I trust you understand what position you’re in?” 

“Yeah. If you don’t let me go in five seconds, you’re fucked.” 

His lips twisted into an incredulous smirk. “I appreciate some spirit in my women, Ms. Blake, but you’re in no position to bargain. I’ve offered to pay you, and I’m still willing to go that route if you choose. But make no mistake. I’m three times stronger than you are. You will get in this van, and you will raise the witch to remove this curse. You can’t possibly reach your weapon and loose a shot in time to stop me before I administer a dose of Thorazine.” 

“Reckon I can, son,” Dad said, stepping around the corner of the Jeep, pressing his Smith & Wesson M&P to Gunderson’s temple. “You let go of her, get on your knees, and we’ll see if the authorities can’t sort this out.” 

Gunderson went still. Cold calculation spun in the blue of his eyes before he released me with a suddenness that startled us all. He moved in another burst of blinding speed. My father didn’t have time to fire before Gunderson vaulted onto the hood of the cargo van, and, with a horrific crunching sound, taken to the air, shedding his clothes. Moments later, an enormous swan banked over the parking lot and disappeared from sight. 

“My God,” Dad breathed. “Was that a swanmane?” 

“No, actually,” I said, staring at the stretch of bare sky where Gunderson had disappeared. “He’s just a wereswan. I think I finally understand what he meant by ‘curse.’” 


	12. Chapter 12

I didn’t limp through my apartment door until a quarter to six and didn’t actually crawl into bed until just before dawn. Dad flatly refused to leave the apartment after the scene in the parking lot. I’d tried showing him my weapons, both legal and not-so-legal in an effort to send him packing, but he refused to budge until I finally padded down the hall and pounded on the door to Stephen’s apartment. 

He’d padded shirtless, chiseled, and gorgeous to my apartment and lounged in the doorway staring bleary-eyed at my dad. Nature had snubbed Stephen and his brother Gregory, and neither was much taller than me. Five-foot and three inches was just under average height for the average American woman, so while I was a little short, I wasn’t actually missing out on much but the joy of reaching things on the highest shelves. 

Women could get away with being short. Men liked to tuck a petite woman under their arm. It was different for a short man. A shorter man had to fight. Fight for recognition from women as potential dates, and fight not to be sneered at by other men, who tended to see them as less-than. It was stupid macho bullshit, but I’d seen it play out a hundred times in high school hallways, in the gym, in parking lots, and even in the police precinct. Prejudice was everywhere. 

I saw it in my father’s eyes as he took in Stephen’s height, his waxed chest, and the bedraggled blonde hair that hung long and loose around his shoulders. He didn’t relax until I’d pointedly informed him that Stephen was a werewolf and a friend who’d ride my couch until nightfall. We both had night shifts, so everything would be just ducky. I didn’t tell him where Stephen worked. No need to open _that_ can of worms just yet.

I could tell he didn’t believe me, but he eventually relented. He still had another daughter to think of, alone in a hotel room with no werewolf bodyguard in residence, and he still had a patient to treat. He promised he’d call with any updates on Nathaniel’s condition and made me promise to swing by when my schedule allowed. 

Sticky silence had stretched between us most of the way to my house, and distance didn’t decrease my feeling of unease. Everything I’d been dying to say to him for years came spilling out in that one ill-timed conversation. But instead of feeling vindicated, I just felt... sick. A little hollow. I guessed I’d been hoping he’d gather me up in his arms and tell me I was wrong, that he loved me, and that he was going to make it right. When I was little, I’d probably have hoped for the impossible, that he’d leave Judith, that he’d somehow bring back my mom and we’d be like we were. I was older now and knew not even Dad could pull off a miracle. 

He’d said I love you, sure, but saying and doing were two different things. Like he’d said, if it’s important enough to you, you show up. He’d never shown up for me as a kid. When I’d needed him most, he’d been absent. Eight years old, and hurting, he’d bailed. A shocked survivor of an almost-assault? It’d been _Judith_ who stood behind me as I gave a statement to the police.

Hypocrisy thy name is Dad. 

***

In the end, I arrived fifteen minutes late to the Palmer raising and had to chew my knuckles to keep from giggling hysterically when I learned the true purpose of this zombie raising. It was simply listed as “entertainment” in the monthly schedule, which was Bert’s way of hiding things I found distasteful. Grandma Flores was a Vodou Priestess, and she’d taught me to animate when my powers started emerging. She believed we should treat the dead with respect and that dead human bodies should not be used as slaves for the living. It was evil magic, and she would not stand for it. 

For years I’d supported fair treatment for zombies. No more putting them to work in coal mines, pesticide-ridden fields, or labor camps. Sometimes they were used as servers, or as props in rides, just there to look gross and moan. No dignity at all.

Jeanette had even stopped the raising of human corpses at Circus of the Damned because they bothered me so damn much. I’d pointed her toward local hunters who could offer her some pretty impressive carcasses to bury instead. It had disappointed the crowds for oh... a few seconds until a few enormous zombie bears leaped from the graveyard to chase the animators out of the ring. 

Exit, pursued by a bear, the audiences called it.

But this raising was a little different.

Drew Palmer had been the son of a banker, a local funny man, a regular at Gallows Humor, and a finalist on Last Comic Standing. And apparently, he’d run in some of the same circles as Bert. The pair had met by chance at a yacht party and bada bing, bada boom, a practical joke was born.

Palmer had a sick sense of humor in life and, apparently, that hadn’t changed in death. 

Palmer had remained childless all his life, so there were only four middle-aged men huddled around their friend’s headstone. They were all fellow comics and to hear them tell it, all of them had traveled or lived with Palmer at some point, so they were more family to him than his own father had been. 

They stood hunched against the wind, waiting to hear Palmer’s Last Will and Testament. The lawyer, who was trying as hard as I was not to laugh, attempted to explain that to inherit a hundred grand each, they’d drive to a nearby set, where a crew would film _The Post-Mortem Roast of Drew Palmer_. It would be live-streamed on YouTube, and a very lifelike Drew would have one last hurrah, a chance to take the piss out of his friends, and an accolade he never achieved in life. It was a win all-around and a surprisingly pleasant start to the evening. 

When I was through, blood dripped down the granite face of Drew’s headstone, filling the contours of the D. The sticky stuff had already worked its way under my nails, no matter how short I kept them. It’d be rust-brown and solid by the time I reached the office. I knelt, wiping the blade free of the sticky red stuff on the snow before returning it to my duffel. 

Off in the distance, I heard the van doors slam shut and heard a man’s voice whoop something about tequila. I hoped they didn’t try to get the zombie shitfaced. I’d have to ask Manny to keep a close eye on the ankle tracker and the livestream tonight. 

I slung the duffel onto one shoulder and started for my car when my phone buzzed. I pulled it from the pocket of my dress slacks and my heart lurched. 

_Dad_

_Are you at a raising or can I call?_

I trudged the rest of the way to the car and flung the duffel into the backseat. I debated turning the phone off. If I called, it could be an update about Nathaniel’s condition. Then again, it could be another emotional ambush, which I was _so_ not in the mood for. 

Sighing, I reached for the phone. I could be a grownup, just this once. 

_I just finished a raising, but I still need to go to the office to finish up my paperwork. It’s standard procedure, you know. OSHA compliance and all that jazz. What’s up?_

The phone rang, and my dad’s cheerful face popped up on screen. The picture was several years out of date, judging by his hairline. I stared at it for a few seconds before I answered. 

“Hello?” 

“Anita?” his voice sounded strained. 

“What’s up, Dad? Is something wrong? Has something happened to Nathaniel?” 

“Yes, and no. He’s not dead if that’s what you mean, but his condition is worse. We’re seeing signs of a secondary infection. We’re just praying to God it’s not MRSA. A battery of antibiotics is our only hope, given his therian metabolism and how much skin he’s lost.” 

Dad’s voice sounded so thin, so hopeless, and I felt like shit for being so uncharitable. Of course he’d be calling about Nathaniel, not to ambush me. He hadn’t even known I was involved in vamp or therian politics until last night. 

“But that’s not all, is it?”

There had to be some other reason he was calling. He could have texted this information or waiting until I was at the office. There was something urgent. Something he thought I might need to miss work to see.

“No, honey, it’s not.” He took a deep breath. “The paramedics brought in someone new. A young lady by the name of Gwen Hayes. Not as badly flayed as Mr. Graison, but it’s still bad. Her girlfriend Sylvie Barker found her passed out on the front step of their house. Her feet are cut to ribbons. Looks like she ran for miles and miles, trying to escape whatever or whoever flayed her. They tried to take her to Mercy Hospital South, but when they ordered a cross and type, she popped as a therian. A lycanthrope specifically.”

“So... this isn’t a coincidence. It’s a hate crime. Someone knew, and they’re hunting down and torturing therians. Why?” 

“I can’t say why, Anita. It’s just a theory. And a two-person group is small sample size, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t want to wait for three to prove the theory.” 

“Agreed, but what can we do about it?”

That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? I’d pose it to a therianthrope enclave in just a few days and see if they had an answer.


	13. Chapter 13

I texted Arnet on the way back to Animator’s Inc. asking her for any updates on the fate of Avril the hooker. She was another flaying victim, and if she popped positive for therianthropy, she was our third. Not a coincidence, but a pattern that I could take to the wereanimal leaders at the upcoming meeting. If I could build a case, surely they’d have to do something, even if things were only taken care of in-house. 

I didn’t like the sound of that clandestine shit one bit, but if it could keep more victims off Dr. Lillian’s operating tables...

Damn it all to hell. Zerbrowski was right. I was up to this monster shit up to my eyeballs, and pretty soon I was sure I’d be in over my head. I’d stop by Ronnie’s office and take Arnet out to lunch at Dead Dave’s. We’d chat, and I’d have a mocktail that I’d pretend was a lot boozier than it actually was, amusing the hell out of Luther. If I happened to be a lightweight and let some pertinent information slip that she could hand to her buddies on the force…. well, that was her business. 

Right. Zerbrowski would spy the gaping holes in that story faster than the gaps in Frank-N-Furter’s fishnet tights. He’d find them about as cute, too. I would not win myself any points going this route, but what choice did I have? I had inroads with these people that RPIT just didn’t have. 

Arnet called just as I pulled into my reserved parking spot in Animator’s Inc. And, much to my bewilderment, her search hadn’t yielded the results I’d hoped for. 

“I had a feeling last night. Call it a premonition, so I pulled a few strings and got the name and started digging. You better be fucking grateful I’m doing you this favor, Antia. I haven’t slept all night.” 

She yawned pointedly, and I wasn’t sure if it was real or affected for my benefit. Probably a bit of both. I knew I was still feeling the lag.

“Avril W. Reed. Born in Arizona to a single mother. One of three girls. She ran away from home at age fourteen. Seemed to hop Greyhounds a lot. Had records in several states. Traded a few pimps, but has been trying to make it independently catering to a fetish crowd. Her web page seemed sketchy as hell, but you’d need someone with more expertise in that area than me to tell you more than that. She popped as plain vanilla human from the few blood tests the doctors could run before she woke up. After her eyes opened, she went bug nuts and ran, evading security by a combination of adrenaline, the staff’s incompetence, and sheer, dumb luck.”

I sighed and leaned heavily against the seat. “So she’s probably dead in a ditch somewhere. Without a therian metabolism and strong antibiotics to stave off infection, she went into shock or died of sepsis.” 

Damn it all to hell. Thus far, Avril had been the least hurt. There’d been a slim chance she could describe her attacker. 

“Most likely. Zerbrowski and the others handed it off to the regular uniforms. They’re sweeping the area for a body. He’s got bigger problems, with the serial flaying case and that therian gang turning people into hamburger in Princeton Heights-“ 

Arnet’s jaw snapped shut so fast her teeth clacked. For several seconds, the silence stretched so thick that Arnet could probably choke on it. 

“Fuck,” she whispered, breaking the silence at last. “Oh fuck. Anita, don’t you dare say a word. Don’t look into it. You’re not supposed to know. I’m not supposed to know. Tammy wasn’t supposed to tell. Zerbrowski will suspend her, and he’ll probably bring me up on charges. The news reports have only said animal carcasses until now. If the truth gets out-“ 

“I’m not telling anyone,” I said, cutting her off before she could really get going. “Jeanette’s people are being targeted, and my Dad and step-sister are treating the injured, so I’m involved in the flaying case, whether I like it or not. But I won’t look into the Princeton Heights business, alright?” 

Unless they brought it up at the enclave. Then I’d be investigating the hell out of it, but I wouldn’t let Zerbrowski know who’d tipped me off. I’d flushed my sterling reputation down the toilet months ago, so I didn’t think fudging a few details now was going to make Zerbrowski think less of me than he already did. 

“Do not bullshit me.” 

“I’m not, I pinky swear.” 

“Goddamnit, Blake!” 

“People keep saying that word. I don’t think it means what they think it means. My cross keeps glowing, after all. So I don’t think God has damned me yet.” 

Arnet made a sound in the back of her throat that could have been a laugh or a sob. 

“You know that’s not how the system works, right? An object only works to repel the undead and unclean on your own belief in its ability to do so. The phenomenon predates Christianity, so we’re pretty sure it’s indwelt in the soul, the essential spark, a person’s aura, whatever you want to call it. Even complete nulls have at least that. Your faith in something is a power you can access and thrust at someone, or so the theory goes. It’s not necessarily a gift of some higher power.” 

I knew the theory and even subscribed to it to a point. What was a God or Goddess to a prehistoric man but a name he gave to something he couldn’t understand? A label he could slap onto a phenomenon to make it less scary? As we became more complex, so did our ideas about the world. Some of those ideas became so ingrained in our cultures as we evolved that we wouldn’t let them go. They became essential to our makeup, to our ways of thinking that we went to war over them. And when blood had been shed for a thing, it became even harder to admit you were wrong.

Was I prepared to say that we’d made God and that God hadn’t made us? No. Answers to universal questions like that were beyond my pay grade. One thing I knew for sure? I was _way_ too tired to have this discussion with Arnet over the phone. 

“Okay, this is getting a little too _Gott ist tot_ , in here for me. Is there any reason Tammy has been giving you the skinny on RPIT’s recent cases?”

Arnet let out a shaking breath. “Tammy and Larry are dating. They’ve apparently been passing each other like ships in the night and eye-fucking every time, but after barely escaping the attack in October, she found him in the aftermath, took him to a hotel, and apparently fucked his brains out. They’ve been going hot and heavy for two months.”

I frowned. “Good for them, I guess. But why exactly is that relevant?”

“It’s relevant because he and that John Burke guy you trained were both certified as executioners in November. He’s qualified to be an FBSA agent. Tammy freaked. She got a copy of the Bureau’s requirements to see what their agents will be getting into. She’s not happy about it, and she’s trying to talk Larry out of taking the badge. But...” 

Arnet hesitated. I thought I could guess where this was going. 

“She said there’s a chance for admittance to the FBSA through one of the non-standard routes of application. If you show exemplary conduct, even with a therianthropic strain, you could make Agent one day. The standards are pretty stringent for therianthropes, but some of the more progressive members in Congress are debating it because there’s been successful integration in certain areas of the UK. It’ll take years of successful cases with Ronnie, keeping your nose clean, recommendations from your peers, and police. Even then, it’s a long shot.” 

“But it’s a _badge_ ,” she hissed. “If I wanted to idle on the curb with a camera and a telephoto lens, snapping pictures of cheating assholes with their pants around their ankles, giving it to the nanny while their wife is out busting her ass to pay for their kids’ ballet recitals and braces, I’d have stayed in my hometown, Anita. Plenty of that where I’m from. I wanted to take the real filth off the streets. Murderers. Rapists. Gangbangers. The bad ones. I like Ronnie and Simon. I appreciate what they’re doing here. But this wasn’t what I signed up for.” 

My lips twisted into a sardonic half-smile. Strange that I could empathize so strongly with Arnet, of all people. This wasn’t how I’d pictured my life either. I should have been married and through with graduate school. What would I have specialized in? With my current interests, I’d have said preternatural microbiology, but the possibilities were endless. 

Would I have kids now? Probably not. I’d asked Judith to take me to the OBGYN not long after Clayton assaulted me and had an IUD placed. I’d decided then and there, that if I were ever raped, I would _not_ have my rapist’s baby. I couldn’t help if I got his STI, but what I could control, I would. She’d taken me without a fuss. 

Curtis and I agreed in the unlikely event I got pregnant, we’d keep the baby. We didn’t like the idea of terminating, and we had the means to support a kid, even then. But honestly, he wasn’t paternal, and I had too many hang-ups where motherhood was concerned. And that had been before I became a vampire hunter, Death’s protegee, and Jeanette’s human servant. I topped several people’s most wanted list. Kids were a definite nope. 

“Are you still listening?” Arnet asked.

“Were you still talking?” 

“God, you’re such a bitch. Why does Ronnie like you again?” 

“Good question. I’m going to finish my paperwork, then head over to the clinic to check on Nathaniel. Do you mind sending Avril’s webpage to my company email? Ronnie should have my card. I’ll have to talk to someone who’s more familiar with BDSM than I am. Jeanette can probably point me toward someone useful. Sex industries usually overlap in one area or another.” 

Arnet made a contemptuous sound, and some of the goodwill she’d earned evaporated. So long as she gave me the email, I’d let her be a judgy bitch in silence. 

“Check your spam folder,” was all she said before the line clicked and the call ended. 

“Merry Christmas to you too,” I grumbled and climbed from the Jeep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to point out in this one that the concept of faith has shifted in canon a lot too. In the early stuff, it was never confirmed or denied whether or not the Christian god was the only moral authority out there. You could ward off a vampire with a credit card because you believed in the power of money. 
> 
> But in later stuff, the fact that Anita's cross still glows shows that she's a good person, despite the fact she's done objectively evil stuff like rape and murder. It's the person's faith in the object that makes it glow. I think this is even reiterated in Kiss the Dead when a devout vampire's faith is said was said to be able to make a cross glow and it didn't harm them. So yeah, the handwave, Antia's a good person because God still gives her the glowy thumbs-up doesn't work for me.


	14. Chapter 14

The halls and reception area of Animators Inc. were painted pea green. Bert thought the color was warm and soothing—an absolute must when we dealt with grieving families. It was the same idea that launched the themed holiday sweaters and mugs, and drove black from the dress code, except footwear. 

I hated the green personally. I guess I’d seen too many oozing pustules in my day.

There were currently seventeen people working at Animators Inc. Eight animators, four mediums, three investigators who did the grueling work of vetting the clients and the zombies they needed raised, and the real unsung heroes, the two secretaries who made it all run like clockwork, despite all the crap slung from both parties. Mary, the day secretary, took calls, scheduled clients, and worked with the investigators and mediums from eight am to five thirty pm. From five-thirty pm to eight am, Craig worked with the animators and anything else that wandered in.

Craig swiveled to face me as I entered the lobby. Craig was... round. Not fat, per se, but round. Round-cheeked, with a round face and round glasses and round eyes. Twenty-two, with a softness that was plastered to him like a dryer sheet on static cling. His baby-fine brown hair, paired with his Harry Potter-style glasses, had probably scored him his first date at a convention.

Craig was computer savvy, and he’d probably spent his teen years in front of a console. He’d settled down early, had two kids, a job that paid well, and no ambitions to do more. And really, why should he? Nothing wrong with scoring and keeping a desk job.

“Hey Anita,” he said, a grin stretching his thin lips. The twinkle in his baby blues told me he was in on the practical joke. “How’d the raising go?" "Fine, I'm about to finish my paperwork." 

“What a coincidence,” a familiar voice said from my left. “I just finished mine.”

John Burke stepped around the corner, followed closely by a young woman in a wheelchair. When we’d met the first time, she’d tanned, gotten highlights, and dressed to impress. She’d treated herself like a showpiece because, at the time, she was her own PR campaign, her body the only consistent currency she had. She sold herself to the highest bidder because the man she’d trusted to take care of her gave her no other avenues to make money. In the end, he’d not only tried to take her dignity. He’d also planned to take her life.

But the sick son of a bitch was dead, and she was alive. Maybe God or the universe _could_ hand out happy endings every once in a while.

Now she was wearing a fuzzy red Christmas sweater and blue jeans. Her long brown hair fell around her shoulders in waves. Her skin was returning to a milky white, her hair a more ordinary brown, and last we’d spoken she was contemplating a pixie cut, though John was hoping she’d at least consider a bob if she was going to go shorter. 

I ignored John and stepped forward to throw my arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders, giving her a light squeeze.

“Wanda! I haven’t seen you since you flew down to New Orleans. How are you? Did things finally come through?”

“Yes. Apparently, I’ve inherited Harry... Mr. Gaynor’s estate,” she glanced down, cheeks flushed. John patted her shoulder and glanced away, pretending he hadn’t noticed the slip. “When all his assets were liquidated, it was shy of a billion dollars. I’ve given a lot to charity. I don’t know what to do with the rest of it, quite frankly.”

That was suspiciously fast for a court case involving an outrageous sum. Smells like a vampire with a bribe, your honor.

“Don’t say that within earshot of Bert,” I warned her. “He’ll find a way to con you out of every cent. Why don’t we talk in my office?”

“Actually, Wanda and I were planning to go out tonight...” John hedged.

“Oh, don’t be a Scrooge, John,” Wanda said, nudging his hip with her elbow.

A thought struck me as I stared down at Wanda, and I almost told her to turn and wheel away. It settled like a sick, leaden weight in my stomach.

“Wanda...I’m sorry, but could I ask you a question? It’s important and I promise to never ask again.”

I didn’t want to dredge up Wanda’s past, especially now that the Gaynor business had been put to bed, but there was a chance she could point me in the right direction vis-à-vis Avril Reed.

Wanda peered at me through her lashes, her expression wary.

“I suppose. What’s the question?”

“Not here. In my office. Why don’t you and I talk, and John can wait for you by the door?”

John set his jaw stubbornly. “No. Anything you have to say to Wanda you can say in front of me, Blake.”

Wanda craned her neck to look up at him, stroking her slender fingers along the knuckles of the big, calloused hand that still rested on her shoulder. She gave him that big, soppy smile that girls got when they were falling hard. She’d given that smile to Gaynor, too. At least this time, I thought the man she aimed it at deserved to be on the receiving end.

John was a powerful animator, a decent vampire hunter, and a good man when you got past all the bluster. He was handsome by almost every conventional metric. Tall, well-built, with dark skin and dark hair trimmed high and tight, with a silver streak running through the center. We’d gone out a couple of times, but it became very apparent we’d never work out. John wanted what his brother late brother Peter had. An adoring wife, two-and-a-half kids, a dog. I wasn’t sure how he planned to balance a white picket fence with his hammer and stakes, but whatever. He needed someone to take care of, and I _so_ wasn’t what he was looking for.

Maybe Wanda was. They were living together, and he was already well on his way to adopting his nephew, Benjamin Reynolds. The baby had been the only survivor of a massacre in August. They were a little trauma bonded unit. I thought they all needed therapy. But then, didn’t most families?

“It’s okay, John. I’ll talk to her. Wait by the door, I’ll be right out. I’m sure we’ll only miss the previews.”

I waited until the door was closed, Wanda looked comfortable, and the file was pulled successfully from my spam folder to turn the laptop toward Wanda. She frowned at it.

“What’s this?” 

“Her name is Avril W. Reed, and she’s a prostitute.”

When Wanda heard the last word, her entire demeanor changed. Her back stiffened, her expression tensed, and her pale eyes went flat and cold.

“Oh, so you think I’m going to know her by name because I was one too? Like we were some sort of club that meets on Wednesdays? We hand out secret hand job techniques and free blowjobs to the first ten guys who show up?”

“Jesus, Wanda, no, that’s not... fuck. No. I was with a group of people looking for bodies on the Riverfront. We found this girl flayed alive.”

Wanda’s eyes flew open, and she stroked her legs absently. I remembered, belatedly, that Gaynor’s fiance Cecily used to flay Wanda’s legs on camera for money. She’d healed, but I was betting she still had some impressive scars.

I opened the least suggestive picture on the screen in a new tab. Avril was topless, her blonde hair arranged in beach waves over one shoulder, tan skin oiled, a sucker held suggestively between pursed lips. She was winking at the camera. I tapped the screen.

“We found Avril within arm’s reach of a therianthrope in his half-man form. She was wearing a satin push-up bra, crotchless panties, holding a riding crop, and the hundred he paid her was not enough. She lost the skin from the right shoulder down. He’s lost eighty percent of his skin. No one saw what flayed them. We don’t know how they got out there, or what they were doing. I am not expecting you to know her life’s story. Someone told me her web page looked hinky. I was going to ask you to look at the page, see what services she offered and if you could point me toward people who know what the hell they’re talking about.”

Wanda sagged in her chair and buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, Anita. I’m making this harder, aren’t I? You’re trying to help them and I’m jumping down your throat.”

“It’s fine, Wanda, really. You’re right to tell me off. I deserve it. Jeanette schooled me the first time we came to visit you. She doesn’t appreciate people looking down on sex workers either.”

She gave me a tremulous smile. “I imagine she wouldn’t. Alright. Let’s take a look.” 

I unplugged the laptop so she could lift it from the desk and set it on her lap. She gave me a nod of thanks before navigating the site. She made several thoughtful hmms and even more huhs. 

“Hinky?” I guessed. 

“Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking. The production costs for this webpage are high, but you said you found her with a therianthrope male, in a secondary location, and cash on her person?” 

“Yeah. That’s weird?”

Wanda peered over the laptop lid and fixed me with a look that clearly said I was being naïve. “You’re fucking with me, right?” 

“If you’ll recall, I’ve only solicited one prostitute, and we didn’t have sex.” 

Wanda’s lips stretched into a come-hither grin, and her eyes sparkled. “I’m sure John wouldn’t be opposed if you wanted to complete that transaction, so long as he got to watch.” 

“Why do women keep propositioning me? Do I just scream ‘lesbian’?” 

“Nah, you’re just cute when you blush.” She sobered then. “Okay, so you’re not fucking with me. You really _don’t_ understand. Okay. Production costs. Headshots, makeup, salon trips, tanning, clothes, contraceptives, lube, ads, etc. For me, there was also security in the form of Eli. Avril seemed to cater to an even more selective fetish crowd than I was—don’t look at me like that, disability fetishism is not as uncommon as you’d think—so she’d definitely need security.”

“And what exactly were these weird fetishes she catered to?” 

Wanda made a face. “Besides the BDSM stuff? Fur fucking, and I don’t mean just fucking someone who’s got the disease, Anita. I’m talking full-on beastiality here. Half-man or full beast form. I never fucked vampires or wereanimals, for safety’s sake. Until Harry kicked the bucket, I only had one man standing between me and the grave. Whoring was already a risky business, and I didn’t need to make it harder by letting something that’s strong enough to rip my arms off stick its dick in me. I’ve ever understood the girls who do it. One vaginal tear and you’re turning furry once a month.”

She stared at Avril’s picture, shaking her head. “She was human, right? That wasn’t false advertising?” 

“That’s what the blood tests said.” 

She shook her head. “Girls like her definitely wouldn't be commanding a price that low. That should have been an alarm bell right there. I charged upwards of a thousand dollars for a few hours. Girls like Avril don’t end up in secondary locations. In fact, most working girls, from the classiest escort down to your two-bit hooker, won’t go to a secondary location with a client if they can help it. You fuck in places you know, where you can be heard, and where people can call for help if you get hurt. Secondary locations are usually where the cops find _dead_ hookers. So either our girl Avril was the dumbest bitch to ever turn a trick, or she was bait.” 

“Bait?” 

“Bait,” she said with a nod. “Lead him somewhere public for a little voyeurism and spring the trap. I don’t think it was a coincidence that she wasn’t as badly hurt. She got him where they wanted him, so she got to live. I don’t think the address will pan out, and the phone number is probably bogus. The site will go down and come back up in a few days with similar fetishes listed, but a new girl in the photos. Some of Harry’s old associates on human trafficking sites did that sometimes.” 

“Fuck,” I breathed. If she was right, the news was huge. I needed to let Zerbrowski know...somehow. “Thanks, Wanda.” 

I took the laptop back from her and folded it shut, then dug in my wallet, handing her a fifty. She eyed it doubtfully. 

“What’s this for?”

“Popcorn, drinks, and all the candy you can buy. I think you’re probably going to miss more than the previews, and I owe you big.” 

She grinned and took it. “I was looking forward to seeing the preview for _New Orleans Undead_ , though. A little vein twitches in John’s forehead when he talks about it. I think he low key wanted to work on the set with you. It’s kinda cute, don’t you think?” 

“Yeah, Burke’s just adorable,” I drawled. “Let me walk you out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grr. Curse AO3's formatting. I cannot get the freaking dialogue to drop down on "Fine, about to finish my paperwork." Sorry about that. Any idea how to fix that without reuploading the whole thing? I've been fiddling with it in my drafts for a bit and can't figure it out. Sorry guys.


End file.
